


Crowd Pleaser

by WhatTheBodyGraspsNot



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Heavy Drug/Alcohol Use, Infidelity between Keith/male OC, M/M, Sexual Tension, a scene of brief minor physical abuse (keith/oc), also keith is shiro's adopted lil bro, bartender!keith, emotional manipulation (keith/oc), keith and lance get high a shit ton, lance is super hype and strips to k-pop and keith is Thirsty (TM), more tags later i guess, pre-kerberos-esque look for shiro if anyone's wondering, stripper!Lance, what else. there's so much.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:30:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 118,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9445586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatTheBodyGraspsNot/pseuds/WhatTheBodyGraspsNot
Summary: Scoring the new bar-tending position at Lady A's strip club is a lucky break for Keith. What's luckier? He gets to work alongside his brother Shiro. Even luckier than that? It's a male strip club, which means Keith's never short of entertainment during working hours - especially when Blue Rider takes the stage. Because Blue's hot - definitely talented - and definitely taking an interest in Keith. The only thing that isn't so lucky? Keith's already got a boyfriend. That, and he's bad at saying no when it comes to attractive boys with magnetic personalities.





	1. One of a Kind

Here’s the thing. Keith’s a pretty cool guy, he guesses. Pretty hip. Pretty self-aware. Has some close friends and a boyfriend and knows how to dress himself the right way. He’s pretty much got shit figured out...except for money.  So when Shiro tells him that they need another bartender at the strip club he works at, Keith figures _hey_ , why not, right? It’s an exciting atmosphere - he’ll definitely never get bored - plus Shiro’s been making bank with all the tips that are thrown his way. And who doesn’t like not having to scrape by for rent, right?

It’s a logical choice, both for him and the club’s manager, Allura - a tall, confident woman who’s as committed as she is intimidatingly gorgeous. She interviews him with such a sharp tongue and hawk-like gaze that Keith forgets it’s a strip club he’s being checked over for and not the FBI. But not unlike the FBI, once he’s in, he’s in. And he _is_ a pretty cool guy, he guesses, so when he strolls in for his first shift, he’s not sweating it.

Well...he’s not sweating it until there’s a huge rush up to the bar and he and Shiro are swamped with orders. Because that’s when things get a little dicey and Keith forgets how to make half the menu and the music is really loud and he spills more drinks than he actually gets to people and-...and yeah. He loses his shit a little. But he’s gonna get better. Tonight. Tonight’s the night for sure.

“Shiro. Pssst, _Shiro_. The fuck is a Blue Rider?” He practically hisses it over his shoulder, the drink order not sounding even the slightest bit familiar as it leaves the woman’s lips across the bar. He’s like 78% sure that’s not even on the menu.

But - “Oh. Here, watch.” - Shiro is on it, three separate bottles clinking together in his arm as he grabs them from the shelf on his way over. “Vodka, blue curacao, champagne,” he lists out as he measures each and dumps them into a thin glass on the bartop, “aaaand, little bit of lemon juice.”

The lemon wedge folds beneath his fingers as he squeezes it over the drink and then sticks one of the small black straws into the glass.

“Yeah, that definitely isn’t on the menu Allura gave me to memorize,” Keith says, more to himself than to anyone, the ice clinking delicately as he takes the drink from his brother and hands it over to the customer with a smile.

“Yeah it’s not on the list at all.”

“Why even serve it then?”

Shiro huffs a laugh, “Be _cause_ it’s named after one of the dancers here.”

He’s already starting on another drink by the time Keith’s reached the electronic register on the wall. “One of ours?” Doesn’t ring a bell. “Which one?”

“Hasn’t come in yet, but he’s pretty much the club favorite. Cleans everyone out whenever he’s here.”

Keith flashes him a raised eyebrow. “And when’s that?”

“Weekend usually.”

“It’s the weekend _now.”_ Well. Technically it’s Friday. But Friday night. Which is pretty much the weekend, so.

His inner monologue is interrupted by Shiro’s chuckle. “I’d learn how to make the drink before stressing about this guy’s life story.”

Keith huffs. “I’m not stressing.” Just interested is all.

Doesn’t matter, though. Shiro’s just shaking his head, an amused smirk quirking the corner of his mouth as he turns back toward the incoming customers. “Whatever you say.”

It leaves Keith to put the champagne and other ingredients back on his own, his mind taking off as he holds the slender blue curacao bottle up to the flashing lights, liquid glinting as it dances against the clear sides.

The club favorite, huh?

 

* * *

 

 

Here’s the thing.

Keith’s only been to a strip club with the intent of being entertained _once,_ and while it wasn’t even his idea, it wasn’t completely terrible. But here’s the difference between that place and his new place of employment:

Dudes.

_Dudes._

The place he had went to with the guy he’s seeing was nice and the girls were talented and everything, but as much as Keith wanted to pretend to be like Isaac, his gay little heart just wasn’t into it.

Here, though. _Here_ he’s got a straight shot of the main stage from where the bar is situated on the back wall of the club, two smaller strips of stage flanking the main one in a sort of elongated E-shape. It means he’s got a great view of exactly what’s happening. At all times. Oh yeah, take him to this club _any_ day.

“What can I get you?” Keith shouts over the bar top as the buff guy on stage finishes up his routine - some sort of firefighter ‘ooo lemme come spray you with my hose’ number that's pretty cheesy but has the ladies hollering regardless.

Not this one though. Apparently this one's not into firefighters. To each their own. “Vodka cranberry.”

Keith nods, the flashing lights settling and then dimming as the routine comes to an end and the dancer bounds off the stage with a wave. Vodka cranberry. If he had a fucking “Tab?” he asks, not because he's trying to prolong this interaction in hopes of a tip, but because he honestly can't remember if he’s served this girl already tonight.

But, “No, can I open one?” and okay, Keith feels like less of a dick now.

She slides her credit card over the counter as he pours her drink for her - vodka first, then the cranberry juice - and he's almost finished when the sudden song startup over the speakers throws everything to shit.

“Shoot,” the girl mutters under her breath while quickly glancing over her shoulder toward the stage. Which is empty. Completely empty. Why the hell is everyone making their way over to it like they’re about to miss something?

“Oh, looks like he _is_ here tonight,” Shiro says vaguely, his nonchalance clashing with the way he slides into double-time to finish an order.

Keith frowns, confused and so obviously missing something and-...and is this fucking k-pop?

He quickly slides the vodka cranberry over - no chance to react when she grabs it with a rushed “Thanks!” and then turns to join the rest of the people who've gathered at the tables near the stage.

And yeah, this is a fucking k-pop song.

“What the fuck is happening?” he tries again, but Shiro’s just slinging a towel over his shoulder, completely at ease as the song snippet ends, the lights dim, and the room is cast in a sultry blue.

_Looks like he is here tonight._

Keith wants to scream, eyes fixed on the stage at the figure cast in shadows.

Who?

 _-I'm just wild and young-_ the song starts, the single bass-line rhythmic and heartbeat-like as it pounds in Keith’s chest. _-I'm just wild and young. Do it just for fun.-_

And that's when the lights flash on - cue ladies losing it - cue money flashing out of purses and wallets. Keith takes it all in with a surprised curiosity as the song’s tempo kicks in, seemingly fast until he notices the steadying bass-line returning in his chest.

 _-Hellooo-_ He's never seen this dancer before. - _Yes sir. I'm one of a kind.-_ Never seen this powerful but graceful strut, softened by a black hoodie and trackpants but still completely obvious as the dancer moves forward, a hand gripping the brim of the snapback that hides his face.

And.

And this is definitely G-Dragon. This guy’s 100% stripping to k-pop right now.

But it's working. It's working pretty fucking well, if Keith’s dick has any minor say in the matter. And even if it didn't, the money flying in the dancer’s direction as he rolls his hips to the beat makes this a no-brainer.

This is definitely him. The club favorite. Blue Rider.

_-get back-_

A hand goes to the zipper of his hoodie, teasing with aborted pulls.

_-young and rich-_

The audience waits on bated breath. And it's only when the zipper finally slides down for the reveal - smooth, tan skin - that Keith realizes he was waiting for it too. And okay. Yes, that's a good set of muscles right there. Not too defined and hot in the way that they're tight and touchable and would probably feel crazy good if you could get your hands underneath that hoodie.

And Keith can't help but just stare as they work, the dancer’s hips grinding on what only his imagination can whip up as the music plays on.

The floor of the stage is covered in bills and Blue Rider technically hasn't even taken any clothes off yet, his hoodie draped back on the crooks of his arms as he bends backwards to continue the grind at a more suggestive angle. It's then that he flips his snapback around too, the bill now backwards and the shadows no longer hiding the face beneath- ...b-...beneath...it...

Keith blinks.

Oh.

...jesus.

The hoodie goes flying in an outburst of whistles and catcalling, but all Keith can focus on is the sharp jawline...the dark eyes...the very very _interesting_ smirk pulling at the corners of the dancer's mouth as he rolls seamlessly onward. 

Oh _jesus._

_-Hellooo. Yes sir, I'm one of a kind.-_

The smirk stays true and deadly as he bends at the waist, hands coming up to flatten against his chest and then slowly work their way down over his pecs, then his stomach, then linger past his hip bones to hint at what’s to come. It's mesmerizing and Keith can't look away...can't look away...can't look away until the song draws to a close and the dancer’s squatting gracefully to pick up his hoodie and the hat that Keith doesn't remember him throwing, and…

The lights rise back up, background music filtering back on as it does between every single dance.

Keith blinks.

Wait. What just happened. Did he black out a little there?

“Woooooow.”

Shiro’s droning tone drags him even further back into reality, the look of vague amusement he’s sporting when Keith turns to face him making Keith frown.

“What?”

And it must be the wrong thing to say, because it pulls an astounded chuckle from him. “Whatdaya mean _what?”_

“I mean what's the ‘woooow’ for?” His rendition doesn't nearly capture the spirit of the original, but it's hard to commit to denying something when you’re secretly popping half a hard-on in your jeans.

Shiro probably doesn’t know the extent of it, but he definitely knows enough to just shake his head, still chuckling as he motions toward the credit card still clasped in Keith’s hand. “Might wanna deal with that before the next push comes.”

Oh yeah. The tab. Right.

Keith turns without another word, not because he doesn’t have one, but because the heat is washing over his face and he just needs a second is all - just a minute to get his shit together.

“He’s got another one coming up, by the way,” Shiro mentions offhandedly behind him. And Keith doesn’t even have to look to know he’s smirking to himself.

It’s fine.

He just needs a second.

 

\-   -   -   -   -

 

Three more dancers do their thing. Three more downtimes and Keith’s break happen and then things are actually fine. Which means he was right. He just got caught off guard by the new dancer and got a little excited and _yes,_ he just needed a second to cool down. Everything’s fine.

_-Hold up!-_

The intro song (that no one else seems to need?) blasts over the speaker but Keith keeps his head on straight, not about to be thrown again by a little k-pop. Or is it k-hop. ...K-hip-hop? What the hell is the right way to say that? Korean hip hop? Does it not get it’s own fun abbreviation thing?

Despite Keith’s purposefully rambling thoughts, Blue Rider’s song begins - another k-hop selection that leaves Keith wondering how he’s getting away with this when all the other dancers have “normal” music. Granted it’s still got the heavy, alluring beat - the one that he’s dancing to right this second, clean and precise movements that show off the tempting proportions of broad shoulders narrowing into a tight waist-

Keith drags his eyes away, blue lights dancing over his face as he frowns at the selection of glassware waiting to be filled under the counter. He doesn’t have to look. He’s not _obligated_ as someone who works at a strip club to actually _watch_ the stripping as it’s happening.

Even if it’s good. Even if it’s like...the smoothest fucking hip thrusts he’s ever seen in his life. Like. It’s not even a thrust. This guy’s somehow completely passed over ‘smooth’ and gone straight to ‘what the fuck how are you so good at that’. Keith doesn’t _know_ how he does it. Or, well, he wouldn’t if he was watching. Which he’s not. Which means he doesn’t deserve that smirk that Shiro’s throwing his way.  

A flurry of excitement breaks out over the floor, Keith’s eyes fixing curiously at where Blue’s made his way towards a table below. In the time Keith’s avoided looking, he’s rid himself of his shirt, leaving only a pair of tight black shorts that probably hug his ass pretty well if Keith took the time to notice, which he definitely _doesn’t_. And he also doesn’t have to watch to know that everyone who can get their hands on him are tucking bills into his waistband. It’s probably not that hard either, judging by how tight those shorts are and how close he’s getting to each girl as he makes his way around the tables.

Keith zones in at the crisp dollar bill entering his vision from the side, Shiro smiling teasingly when Keith catches on and rolls his eyes at him. “Hilarious.”

“Thirsty much?”

“No, but I’ll take the money if you’re just handing it out,” he deadpans and snatches the bill out of his grip. He's not thirsty. He's not.

Shiro’s still smiling regardless. “Yeah, you might as well hang onto that for tomorrow.”

“I love how clever you think you are.”

“And I love when you try to convince yourself that you’re not being completely obvious.”

Keith opts to turn away, “No idea what you’re talking about,” and then busies himself with the register on the wall as the song ends and the background music fades back in, much to the crowd’s disappointment.

But Shiro’s not done. “Please. I know that face. That’s the smitten-but-hiding-it face.”

Keith has to laugh. “The what?”

“I don’t see it a lot, but I know it when I do.”

“Yeah? You spend a lot of time staring at my face?”

“More than I’d like to, seeing as we still live together.”

It’s enough to pull another chuckle from him, finger tapping at various buttons on the touch screen as he checks on the tabs. “And who’s idea was that?”

“Same person who hooked you up with a job where you can ogle hot guys for hours on end.” He pauses. “Well. _One_ guy, at least. What would Isaac think?”

The urge to groan is mighty but Keith resists it. “This still? More of this?”

“So I’m wrong, then?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not a Blue Rider fanboy?”

That’s worth a cringe. “No.”

“Alright.” The way he accepts it just like that - suddenly and with no further questions - leaves Keith narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

That was far too easy.

What’s going on...

“Well if it isn’t Six, my favorite hunky bartender.”

A new voice joins them before Keith can figure out what Shiro’s scheming, the nickname and familiarity of it all causing him to slowly turn his head from the screen. And when he does, he’s pretty sure his heart dropkicks itself into the ceiling, because that’s when the voice connects to the face grinning playfully at Shiro across the bar top from underneath a drawn up hood, the same kind of grin that unknowingly held Keith’s attention from afar not so long ago.

“Whatdaya need, Blue?” Shiro sighs, although it’s hardly serious and almost as lighthearted as how he talks to Keith. Keith, who is standing stock still by the register, muscles refusing to move because. Well shit, it’s _him._

“I left my water bottle in my car,” Blue fake pouts, bottom lip jutting out but not masking the labor in his breathing - the slight sheen of sweat across his face and his neck and his collarbones.

Shiro must be immune to it because he continues on like Keith’s entire world isn’t rearranging itself at breakneck speed a few feet away. “Again?”

But it’s okay. Blue hasn’t spotted Keith yet - hasn’t noticed the other presence behind the counter. Maybe if Keith just doesn’t fucking _move…_

Shiro hands over a cold water bottle from the refrigerator and Blue smiles as he takes it, eyes sparkling dangerously. “You’re the best, Six.” And what the fuck does that even mean? Like, six pack? Because Shiro’s definitely ripped. “You can watch _my_ six _any_ time.”

Shiro huffs a laugh. “Flirt all you want, but you’re not getting another drink named after you.” He says it so casually that this _must_ be a thing that happens frequently, his nonchalance about it almost enough to transfer over to Keith’s own frazzled nerves - that is, until he changes the game up and nods over his shoulder in Keith’s direction. “Oh by the way, meet the new guy. He just started yes-”

The very sudden attention has Keith panicking - his nerves spiking and pushing him and before he knows what he's doing he turns on his heels - just fucking slips away from the intro and the spike in his nerves and into the back room where he’s away from the eyes - away from the attention.

...far enough away from the dimmed lights and deep bass that the reality of what he just did fully sinks in.

Wait.

What...the fuck.

What the fuck?

What the fuck did he just do? Is he five?

His pulse is still rapid. Heavy. The various boxes of unopened bottles mock him with a clink as he nearly collapsed back on a stack, a heavy sigh escaping him in the process. He just dipped on an intro. Like a child.

And now here comes the worry. Because shit, what're the two of them doing out there now? Laughing at him? No, Shiro wouldn't do that. Introduce him to an extremely attractive dancer out of fucking nowhere? Now _that's_ something he'd do. And how'd Keith respond to a little sudden pressure?

He lets out another sigh, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Wow. How super cool is he. What a super cool first impression. Just the super coolest.

“He's gone,” Shiro hums through the door.

But Keith’s not ready to face the incredible amount of shit he's about to get when he goes back out there. No, he's about to take a personal five in hopes that his inability to function will be forgotten in that time.

 

* * *

 

 

It's not forgotten.

Not even a little bit.

Almost the exact same scenario happens Saturday night and Keith does it again. Just fucking dips before he has to interact.

He swears he's cool.

 

* * *

 

The television flickers like lightning on the darkened living room walls of Isaac’s apartment, Keith only half watching, his mind pulled in several other directions lately. He glances over to the other end of the couch. He was a sophomore in college when they met - Isaac a junior. All it took was a few interested looks and a couple bad decisions and they started seeing each other a semester later. Keith couldn’t resist it - the bad boy type - the dark hair and piercings and tattoos that screamed Art Major Because I Had To Pick A Major But Fuck Conforming. Keith fell for it. Hard. For a while, at least. But they’re older now - three years older. And…

Keith slips his foot through the space between them on the couch, nudging at Isaac’s thigh. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His voice is as stereotypically deep and stereotypically dull as it was three years ago. Keith hopes _he’s_ changed though, at least a little.

“Finished my first weekend of work yesterday.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

Silence creeps back up between them.

The television bathes the white walls in pale green.

“I didn’t completely fuck it up, I don’t think,” he tries again with another nudge to the thigh, this one more pointed.

It works. Isaac looks over at him, eyelids heavy. “That’s _good_ , Keith.” And then it’s back to the TV.

Keith frowns, disappointed but not surprised. “You’re not curious at all?”

“‘Bout what.”

“‘Bout the fact that I work in a strip club now? With a bunch of almost naked guys?”

He waits for the response that he knows isn’t going to come, maybe out of hope for the sheer surprise of it.

It doesn’t. Just like he knew it wouldn't.

Okay, fine.

Keith moves on autopilot, drawing his legs in so he can slink over towards him because he knows that at least  _this_ will work - has so many other times and will now too. Isaac remains unmoved until the screen is blocked by Keith’s body, the shorter boy coming to drop down in his lap, both hands reaching out to spread against his chest.

Isaac looks up. Finally.

“Shouldn’t you be jealous?” Keith asks quietly, though not from a lack of confidence. No. He knows exactly what he’s doing. And the hands that come to rest on the small of his back tell him he’s doing it _right._ “All those hot guys around me. Night after night.” A very specific hot guy comes to mind, actually, but he doesn’t have to know that.

Isaac’s touch lingers before sliding down to cup Keith’s ass - to give a squeeze that can’t be interpreted as anything other than possessive. It’s not what Keith was looking for at the start of all this - not where he wanted it to go - but he guesses he’ll take it, rolling his hips as Isaac tugs him in tight.  


 

* * *

 

 Blue Rider is still really really popular and really really hot when Thursday night rolls around again - the start of their Thursday to Saturday shift. It’s only the third night Keith’s seen him dance, but it might as well be the very first, the liquid smooth roll of his hips against the back of a girl’s chair making the table of friends call out in encouragement.

Keith watches, but only for a little. Partially because he’s starting to lose his ability to pretend like he doesn’t care, and partially because he doesn’t want to give his brother any more ammunition. Not after consistently bailing on intros for two days straight.

“So when does afterschool start up?” Shiro asks, graciously ignoring the little start in Keith’s composure as he walks by. He’s got more glasses stacked in his arms than he probably should, but leave it to him to make one trip instead of two. “Soon?”

“This week.”

It's about time. The afterschool is exactly what it sounds like - a place that takes in kids that have working parents after school lets out. He’s volunteered there for years now - more of a second home than anything.

"Pidge working there too?"

"Yep."

“Sydney comin’ back?”

Keith takes a stack from his brother’s arms and places it on the counter, Blue Rider’s relentless k-hop making them vibrate across the marble. “Should be. She’ll be in third now.” Grade, that is.

The glasses clink as Shiro positions them on a ledge beneath the bar top, neat and orderly and just like him. “Good. Means you won’t be bumming around the house during the day anymore.”

“That’s insulting.”

“It’s the truth.”

Keith lets his attention roll back over to the main stage, or more specifically, where Blue is now strutting confidently around the pole at the end without actually touching it - a tease that leaves the club-goers wanting - “Whatever.” - Keith too, if he’s gonna be honest. “He ever actually do it?”

His question is just vague enough that it has Shiro pausing, the glass perched in his fingers before he pops his head up past the counter to tune into Keith’s train of thought. The pole. “Oh. Not that I’ve ever seen.” Interesting. “And I remember being here before he was even hired on.”

Keith leans against the register, arms crossed. Very interesting.

“It’s probably a good thing, actually.” And with that, Shiro’s straightening back up and moving past him. “Wouldn’t wanna have to call the paramedics on multiple heart attacks…” he lobs a grin at Keith as he brushes by, “customer _and_ staff-wise.”

It’s so funny that Keith forgets to laugh. At all. Because it’s not funny. “Ha.” But it’s drowned out by the flashing ending to the k-hop and the hormones and the blah blah blah.

Keith turns toward the register. Please. It’s not a big deal. Blue’s not even really that attractive up close, when he’s not grinding his hips into an imaginary body below him. And even if Keith’s only really seen him up close that one time - and even if his hood was up so Keith couldn’t actually really see too well - and even if it was only a few seconds - and…

And alright. So what _if_ he’s really that attractive up close? What fucking if? It’s still not a big deal. People can be super attractive and be complete assholes. Like Isaac. There you go. Keith already has a super attractive person in his life. And they’re together. And they’re _fucking._ And even if Keith isn’t _as_ attracted to him as he was three years ago, that doesn’t mean anything. Especially now. He’s got Isaac.

Keith takes an affirmative breath, realizing now that he’s been glaring at the register for a good amount of time, also realizing that Shiro hasn’t interrupted his internalized pep talk once. Not _once._ He just stood there and kept to himself and didn’t say a thing. And now he’s leaving. He’s-...leaving? He’s turning on his heels and pushing noiselessly into the back room? Why?

“Hey mami. You avoiding me?”

Keith’s heart drops into his stomach, the barely familiar voice cropping up behind him with such ease that when he turns around, it’s like he’s been standing there the whole time.

Blue Rider.

Keith struggles. “...what?”

But the grin on the boy’s face across the counter is confident. And he’s looking at him. They’re making eye contact. And Keith doesn’t have anywhere to go when he explains. “You’re new, right?”

Uh. “Yeah?” Yeah. Yes. He’s new here. Why’d he answer that like he doesn't know?

Blue’s grin turns playful, the hood over his head tousling the damp hair there. It’s very-...it’s very attractive... “Okay so what's the deal then? You avoiding me or what?”

He’s got nowhere to go because Shiro fucking left him. On purpose. “Uh- no.” Keith aims for confidence but it gets pushed aside in the very real heat washing over his face. Because damn he’s attractive. And Keith can officially declare that because now he’s stared at him from both far off and up close. Slim face...amazing jawline...lips that quirk teasingly whether he knows it or not. _Damn it._ “No.”

It’s an outright lie. Keith’s totally been avoiding him, if the fact that he bails into the back every time he shows up isn’t obvious enough. But see, _this_ is why. _This_ is why Keith’s been waiting for the right time. This was not the first impression he wanted to make.

But Blue seems satisfied regardless, his posture cool as he folds his arms against the counter as he leans forward, “Good,” and then taps his pointer finger on top of the stack of small plastic cups. “So can you not avoid me and also get me a cup of ice real quick please?”

It’s kind of a weird request, but Keith doesn’t question it for one second, plucking a cup from the stack and scooping ice into it as quickly and calmly as possible. It feels like it stretches on for fifteen minutes, a couple cubes scattering to the floor in the process, but when it’s done, it’s done. And Keith’s grateful for it.

Except, “Here,” he says, kicking himself because he swears he’s cooler than this. He _swears_ he has game.

The cup is taken from him with another grin, “Thanks man,” and then Blue’s walking away - strutting out of Keith’s personal bubble - right as Shiro makes his way out from the back to fall into place beside him.

And _oh._ Keith could kill him. “You did that on purpose.”

“You needed to talk to him at _some_ point.”

“Yeah, not like that.” That was just-

“You’re overthinking it.” Shiro says it with a certain amount of nonchalance that’s almost reassuring. Almost like, maybe Keith wasn’t as fucking awkward as he thinks he was. And then he tacks on: “So how’d it go, though?”

Which makes Keith glance over at him, “How'd _what_ go?”

And Shiro’s got this terrible, awful, shit-eating grin on his face that negates all the reassurance that he’s built up to this point. “Get him to sign anything for you?”

Fuck. God. Keith wants to bury himself in the ice chest. He swears he’s got game. “You're the worst.”

He _swears_ it.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

Keith faceplants into his pillow the second he gets home. This weekend schedule of a 3am bedtime supremely fucks with his circadian rhythm or whatever the hell that’s called. But at least he’s sleeping as soon as lights are out - no wishywashy grace period where he’s staring up at the ceiling contemplating life. It’s kind of nice, actually, in it’s own weird little way. Until he needs to wake up the next morning, that is.

“I’m dying,” he groans, the blanket he stripped from his bed pooled around his shoulders as he drops onto the couch, eyes still closed. “I'm dying - I'm dead.”

Shiro’s up and moving about like he didn’t get even less rest, but that’s what’s come to be expected of him. He’d even do it when he was the only one working at the club and Keith had normal sleeping hours. He’s some sort of superhuman big brother and honestly Keith stopped questioning it years ago.

“Here,” he hears him say as a shadow blocks the sunlight from hitting his eyelids. The telltale smell of coffee greets his nostrils. “I got the creamer you like.”

Keith opens one eye, lured by the promise of his favorite. “Peppermint?”

“Mhm.”

“But it’s not in season.”

Shiro smiles, “Got it off Amazon,” and then swishes the coffee mug in front of Keith’s face until he takes the bait and reaches out to claim it.

Keith’s blanket cocoon falls a bit as he brings the mug toward his mouth, but it’s worth it for peppermint-flavored caffeine. “You must love me,” he mumbles after a blessed sip.

“Sometimes,” is Shiro’s answer, although it’s vastly enhanced by the way he attempts to un-knot Keith’s bed-head as he moves around to the back of the couch.

“And you must feel guilty.”

“Rarely.”

Sip. “Not even for last night?”

The fingers expertly untangling his hair pause for a moment, as if in thought, and then move right along as Shiro huffs a chuckle. “Are you still not over that?”

“No,” Keith grumbles, mug to his lips.

“It was fine.”

“Betrayal.”

“Seriously? Since when do you care about making good first impressions?”

Direct hit. Keith has never been a people pleaser and they both know it. But. “You tricked me.”

“I only did what you did those other times.”

Direct hit number two. Keith sinks deeper into the couch.

It pulls another calm chuckle from his brother. “Relax,” he reassures, finishing up his last de-tangle. “Blue’s just a normal guy. You’re idolizing him, and I have a feeling it’s gonna get you disappointed in the long run.”

Keith remains silent. He’s not idolizing him. He’s just…

“Hey, I have a proposition for you.”

“Meh.”

“It involves pizza.”

And just like that, Keith has been pulled out of his slump. Pizza? Dare he ask… “Deep dish?”

“Yes.”

Damn it. He’s trapped. “What do you want?”

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

The outside of the club looks different in the sunlight - like more of a boring, normal building than it actually is. Keith locks the car he shares with Shiro and makes his way to the front, not exactly fired up about being here off hours when he’ll be here tonight anyway, but also not exactly complaining if it means pizza for dinner.

He makes his way to the front door, only frowning when he feels the pulse of familiar bass low in his chest. Could it be? But they’re closed.

He knows this song.

There’s the slightest bit of a creak to the door as he slips through, but it’s easily covered by the melody of the song’s chorus. The song. The k-pop song.

Keith’s pulse quickens a bit but he forces himself to keep moving, making a bee-line for the empty bar as Blue Rider moves none the wiser across the stage further out.

 _Take inventory,_ Keith grounds himself, even as his heart continues to flutter while he grabs the clipboard from where Shiro told him it’d be. Just take inventory and then leave. Everything’s cool.

Clearly Blue’s just here practicing. Dancers need to practice right? And they definitely need to practice if they’re gonna use the pole like that-

Keith pauses, pen freezing in the middle of his three. Wait. He looks up. Pole. He’s using the pole. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help his curiosity as he watches - clipboard in hand - as Blue takes a couple steps back from the pole positioned in the middle of the walkway and stares at it, almost like he’s mentally psyching himself up. When he moves, he moves powerfully towards it, wraps his hand up high, and then lifts himself off the ground with ease. He swirls around the pole and it’s effortless - graceful - and Keith has to tear his attention away because it’s not even that sexual, it’s just...it’s just mesmerizing.

No. Focus. This can be done pretty quick - that’s what Shiro said. And then home and then pizza and _then_ he can come back and stare at Blue all he wants. Keith completes his three and moves onto the next row of bottles. They’re gonna need more vanilla Absolut soon. That shit goes fast around here.

“Ahh...”

The music cuts out just in time for Keith to straighten, attention drawn to where Blue has crouched by his phone at the end of the walkway to pause the song. He stands to give it another shot, without the music this time, and Keith has to wonder if those basketball shorts are helping or hurting him. They’re swishy enough to help him slide with minimal friction as he grips the pole between his thighs. But is it too much?

Damn it, he’s doing it again. Focus. Oh my god just _focus._

5 bottles of blueberry Absolut.

4 bottles of watermelon.

Blue is humming the song to himself as he dances.

5 bottles of pineapple.

Why is he so distracting.

5 whipped cream.

So distracting.

3 cherry.

Keith wants to watch.

_CLINK!_

If it’s possible for blood to freeze over in your body for real, it happens now. Right here. Right where Keith is standing, a bottle of shitty lemon vodka in one hand and his heart in the other.

Because Blue’s stopped humming.

“Holy shit, man!” And...and...he’s laughing? Keith turns hesitantly to the tune of Blue’s startled laughter. “You scared the crap outta me. I thought I was alone.”

Okay. So not the reaction he was expecting. He gingerly places the bottle back into its row as Blue hops down off the pole. “Yeah...my bad.”

“Nah, it’s fine!” The way he drops to the edge of the stage and hangs his feet off with a grin makes it seems as if he _didn’t_ just get the crap scared out of him. If it was Keith, he’d be raising hell right now. But it’s not. And Blue’s not. He’s just, really chill. “Six’s got you doing inventory, huh?”

“Looks that way,” Keith fires back, a little snappier than the situation calls for, but he’s just now realizing that he’s alone in here with him. With Blue. All by themselves. Still, though. Calm the fuck down and make a better second impression. “Why do you call him that anyway?”

Blue looks up from where he’s tying his shoes. “Who, Six?”

“Yeah.”

“Six-pack. Dude’s ripped.” Ah, so Keith was right. That’s one for the books. “Everyone’s got nicknames, you know? He’s Six. I’m Blue.” He nods toward him, “You’re Gloves.”

“Gloves?”

“Gloves,” he motions toward Keith again, his smile dying down when he realizes it, “Well, you’re not wearing them now. But you always wear them at work.”

Keith frowns. His fingerless gloves? _That’s_ what he’s named after? That's kind of... “Who decided that?”

“Oh,” Blue grins, his shoe now tied, “I did.”

Keith stares at him, several thousand more questions on the tip of his tongue, but it’s hard to do _anything_ really when a smile like that is being directed at him. It’s like the sun but not in a shitty, cheesy way. It’s in the way that it physically hurts to look at and Keith knows he shouldn’t but he’ll be damned if he’s not gonna continue to stare his ass off anyway.

He might have a problem.

“Hey, so…” Blue drops off the side of the stage and makes his way closer to the bar. “You uh…?” Keith’s eyes drop down to the way he pinches his thumb and pointer finger together and then taps them to his pursed lips a couple times. Asking but not asking.

A rush of excitement washes through Keith’s body whether he actually asks it or not. Oh? But he has to stay cool, so he shrugs, setting the clipboard down on the counter in front of him. “Sometimes.”

Blue grins. “Yeah? Wanna?”

“You have some?”

“Mhm.”

Oooh the excitement. “I mean, yeah. If you’re offering.”

It transfers across the counter. And they’re on their way to the parking lot without further discussion. “Sweet.”

Keith hasn’t gotten high in a few months now. Not because he hasn’t wanted to, but because Isaac’s usual guy moved out of state and didn’t hook them up with someone else before going. Technically they could’ve found someone else - shit, it was Keith’s calculated flirting that _got_ Isaac’s usual guy to be their usual guy - but it just never happened.

But _now._ Now Keith’s running up a high just from walking through the empty parking lot to Blue’s car, the black two-door a promising silhouette against the setting sun. He’d be lying if he didn’t also acknowledge the fact that he’s crazy nervous, but who wouldn’t be? Like going to smoke with the hot dancer you technically just had your first full conversation with isn’t grounds for some spiked nerves.

But Keith steadies out his breathing - does his best to, anyway - and follows around the side as Blue unlocks and opens the passenger side door, pulls forward the collapsible back to the seat, and motions dramatically. “After you, sir.”

Okay. Be cool.

Keith crouches beneath where the front seat belt is being held up for him and tucks away into the back, his pulse quickening as the door closes behind him. Blue appears on the other side and slips in like he’s done it a thousand times, barely giving Keith enough time to settle in before doing so himself.

And it’s close. They’re very close. Keith can smell his cologne they’re so close. But it’s fine. It’s all good. Everything’s fine.

“So really. How ya like it so far?” Blue’s pulling a small first aid kit out from under the driver’s seat as he asks it. “Six treatin’ you right?”

Six. Shiro. Keith nods. “Yeah it’s-...it’s good. He’s my roommate so...kinda _has_ to treat me right, otherwise I know where he sleeps.”

“Really?” He pauses after the first aid kit’s top flips open. “I didn't know you guys were roomies.”

They’re too close for Blue to be looking straight at him like this. “Uh- yeah.” Keith shifts. “Brothers too, I guess.”

More staring. This time with raised eyebrows. “Seriously? I didn’t know you guys were brothers either!”

Keith crosses his arms, suddenly feeling like he’s taking up too much room in this backseat. “Well. Yeah, adopted. I'm adopted.” What is a sentence and how do you form one.

“Oh man, that’s insane.” Blue’s chuckling through the shock, and then finally pulls a thin silver tin out from the kit in his lap. “I would hate to work with my brother.”

Keith watches smooth fingers flip open the lid to the tin, a row of white cigarettes waiting inside for him when he does. “You don’t get along?”

“We do.” He pulls one out, “Not as good as my sister and I do though,” and sticks it in his mouth so he can have both hands to secure both lids and slide the first aid kit back underneath the seat. “Want the honors?”

Keith’s eyes drop to where he’s plucked the joint from his lips and has presented it to him in one hand, a purple lighter in the other. It’s been a while since he’s seen one of those - the joints that’re packed tightly and expertly enough that they almost look like a real cigarette. Fancy. Keith waves it off. “Go ahead.”

Blue accepts without a word, bringing the joint back between his lips and flicking the lighter below the end so he can light it. It’s familiar and it brings Keith back to an earlier time when he hears it...the grind and click of the lighter...the pulling intake of air...the barely-there crackle of burnt paper as Blue breathes it in enough to get it started, and then takes a drag for himself, tossing the lighter into the compartment on the side.

Keith watches, hungrily, as his lips part and the smoke billows out slowly into the open air in front of him.

Oh man. He might definitely be in trouble.

“So scale of one to ten,” Blue supposes calmly, whether he can see Keith staring at him or not, “how shitty is your sleep schedule right now?” He hands the joint over, super casual, and elaborates as Keith takes it from him. “One being normal, ten being the worst ever.”

It’s thinner than Keith realized, now that he’s got it between his fingers. Kind of delicate. Like his ability to remain calm. “Seven,” he answers, hoping to get the attention off of himself as he brings it to his lips and prays to god that he doesn’t cough. He doesn’t even know if he’s being watched, to be fair, but the self-made pressure to perform is chugging away regardless.

His lungs burn as he inhales, shallow at first, and then more confidently when he realizes his body must remember how to not completely punk out after all this time. There’s a sweetness there that he doesn’t expect - not overpowering, but there all the same - and it makes him turn the joint in his fingers a few times as he lets the smoke out through his nose.

“Strawberry.”

“Nice, right?” Blue’s smiling at him when he gives it back, throwing in a quick, “My girl recommended it a while back and it’s all I’ve had since.”

He takes a drag and keeps it in his lungs, letting his eyes close long enough that Keith can take him in at this distance without feeling rushed.

There’s no doubt about it. He’s definitely attractive. But not even in the way that Keith normally finds guys attractive. No tattoos. No piercings. No terrible attitude. No, Blue isn’t any aspect of the bad boy archetype whatsoever. So why the fuck is Keith so goddamn obsessed with him?

“Blue?”

“Hm?”

“What’s your actual name?”

It should be a normal question - one that isn’t intrusive or creepy or anything like that. But somehow or another, it ends up coming out that way. In Keith’s head at least.

But Blue lets out his breath, more smoke filtering through the sunset. And then he says it, rather matter of fact. “Lance.”

It’s a declaration. One that Keith now wonders if coworkers here discuss with each other. But he’s done it either way. He now has a less ridiculous name to put to that face lurking in the back of his mind.

Lance.

“Keith,” he finally declares too. Because it’s only fair.

And Blue-...Lance - he rolls his head over to look at him, eyelids heavy and smirk legendary. “Good to meet ya, Keith.”

Yes. Keith is definitely in trouble.

“Thanks for sharing your stash, Lance.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

They get through almost a whole joint before Shiro’s texting Keith that the pizza’s arrived at the apartment - more of a ‘how the hell can you still be taking stock’ than anything, though. It’s fair. Keith’s been gone for two hours now. But it’s not because he’s been taking stock.

“So,” he starts out, still making his way in through the door to their apartment as he does.

Shiro’s pouring a glass of water near the sink as he looks up, confused. “So.”

“So I might've just gotten high with Lance.”

“Who?”

Oh yeah, that’s right. “Blue Rider.”

“What?”

“BLUE RIDER.” He might still be a little stoned.

Shiro winces. “No I heard you the first time, I'm just confused when this happened.”

“Just now,” Keith explains without explaining, leaning against the closed door and not really sure why he’s telling his brother this in the first place.

Especially with the look of hesitant confusion that’s written on his face. “Just now?”

“Yeah.”

“With Blue.”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Back of his car.”

And Shiro’s just staring, gears turning. It’s kind of funny until he blinks and says: “Okay I'm missing something. Start again from the beginning.”

Keith lets out a breathy groan as he pushes himself from the door and sidles up next to the pizza box waiting on the table. “He was there when I was,” he explains as best as he can. And honestly, he thinks he’s doing a pretty killer job. “And so we lit up in his car.” There’s a hallelujah chorus singing in his head as he opens the box, the fresh, beautiful deep dish sparkling back at him. The cheese clings seductively to the rest of the pizza as he pulls a piece out with a whispered: “Oh my gooood…”

“Okay, you’re still high,” Shiro states confidently, quickly sliding a plate under where Keith is now lowering the slice of pizza to the table. “You drove home like this?”

“S’like... _five_ minutes,” Keith mumbles through a bite. It’s so good. So cheesy. Shiro will _not_ ruin this moment for him.

“I should’ve just done inventory myself…”

“No it’s fine,” Keith waves him off, even if his head is a little spinny right now. “It’s counted. We need um…” he closes his eyes in thought, “...uhhhh…” what was that one vodka they’re running out of?

“I’ll check and order tonight.” Shiro’s pulling a piece of pizza out for himself as he says it, struggling with the strings of gooey cheese that refuse to cooperate. “When you come down off your high, I want details.”

“Details.”

“I’m still completely shocked that you did anything at all with Blue and lived to talk about it.”

Keith narrows his eyes. Is that a comment on him or Lance?

“Eat,” he says before Keith can ask. “We have work in two hours and you’re slow with literally everything when you’re stoned.”

The instinct to defend rises in Keith’s core, but he goes for a bite instead. He can’t even fight that. It’s true and they both know it.

 

* * *

 

It’s Friday night and Keith is no longer stoned, which is helpful because the bar’s being swamped. Three appletinis and two vodka sprites and just a shit ton of those champagne drinks named after Blue. Keith works his ass off and is actually very cordial, which is why he doesn’t understand why his tip jar is almost empty. Is it not in a convenient spot? Is he not being nice enough? Shiro’s jar is practically overflowing but Keith’s is just-... What the hell.

“Why the long face, mami?”

The little drop in his heart is just something that’s going to happen every time Lance shows up behind him, Keith decides. He’s gonna need to get used to it.

“Nothing,” he answers automatically, sliding the last appletini across the counter and then wiping off the trail of condensation it left on the counter. Shiro likes to keep the bar top sparkly clean. It’s one of his Things™. “All good.”

But: “That’s a frown.”

Keith finally breaks away from his work, the rag still clutched in his hand as he looks up and is greeted with the very troublesome view of Lance leaning against the counter, head tilted a bit as he smirks at him from underneath a black zip-up hoodie. The problem is that it’s only zipped up halfway - smooth tan skin waiting temptingly beneath dark fabric.

Keith swallows. Lord help him.

“Making shit tips,” he forces out, opting to go back to wiping down the counter instead of mentally unzipping the rest of his hoodie. Because that’s not what people with significant others do. “Dunno what I’m doing wrong.”

“Want me to tell you?”

There’s honesty lurking beneath the tease. And it hooks Keith quicker than it probably should. “You know?”

“You know too, man.”

But he doesn’t. Keith _doesn’t_ know. And that’s why it’s pissing him off so much - doesn’t he _see_ that-

“It’s your clothes.”

Keith frowns, looking down at his normal black jeans and button up that’s probably a little too tight. “What the hell’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Too much of ‘em,” Lance grins. “Not enough skin.”

Keith’s ready to fire off a snappy response when it clicks it his head. His clothes. He glances over at Shiro - or more-so, the black shirtless vest that perfectly shows off the tight muscles that everyone knows he has underneath. Keith had always thought it was a bit much, but look at Shiro’s tip jar.

“Just sayin’.”

Keith zones back in, the honest raise in Lance’s eyebrows enough to seal the deal.

Okay.

“Should I just…” Keith stammers, “...take my shirt off?”

And it leaves Lance laughing, “Hey wait, that’s my job,” although the way his eyes trail just south of Keith’s face is interesting.

Very interesting. It’s his job to take Keith’s shirt off? Wait, no. It’s his job to take his own shirt off. He’s a fucking stripper. Right.

“Hey, can we take a selfie?”

Keith’s thoughts are derailed by the addition of several other voices belonging to the three girls who approach Lance from behind, seemingly out of nowhere and with nervous smiles.

Keith frowns. What the fuck?

“Oh! Yeah, of course!”

What the _fuck?_

It happens quickly but it feels like it drags on from where Keith’s standing, Lance turning to swing his arms around the girls and smile as one of them holds her phone up and frames their faces. Keith has the good sense to duck out of frame just at the last second, although he’s sure Lance has already seen his look of confusion through the camera’s reflection.

_Click!_

“Thanks! We have to leave, but you were so good tonight!” One of them says, but the blush of her cheeks is obvious. She’s smitten. Star struck. Keith can’t say he doesn’t know the feeling.

When they’ve retreated back to wherever they came from, Lance turns back around, nonchalantly cracking his neck and leaning back against the counter.

Keith’s waiting for him when he does.

“What?”

“Does that…” how does he phrase this, “happen a lot?”

“What. ...oh that?” Yeah. That. “Yeah, depends on the day.”

Keith blinks. Tries to wrap his head around it. “You don’t think it’s creepy?”

It must be the wrong thing to say because Lance seems startled, brows coming together like he can’t understand the concept. “Why would I?”

And now they’re both just staring at each other - confused about two different things - on two different levels - and Keith doesn’t really know where to go from here.

“So anyway,” thankfully, Lance is on it, tapping on the bar top as he straightens to leave, “more skin. Got it, Gloves?”

And all Keith has to do is agree, “Got it,” even if the suggestion takes his brain to some wild places. Places it shouldn’t necessarily be. Especially as his eyes fix on Lance during his last song, the hoodie now completely gone and given way to a leanly muscled torso as hot as Keith was imagining. And _especially_ as he watches him grind his hips in the bar’s direction, a hand sliding from the side of his neck, slowly down that torso, and then over the dangerous V of his hips.

 

* * *

 

Keith has a boyfriend.

Keith is seeing someone.

They’ve been together for three years.

He really shouldn’t be lusting over someone else - someone he just met, for that matter - no matter how sexy and fun and persuasive that person is. He just shouldn’t. That’s not what good people do.

“Isaac?” he mutters, although it comes out as more of a gasp, hands twisted beneath the pillow and his body jerking forward like it always does.

Isaac responds by picking up speed, crushing Keith tighter into the mattress as he snaps his hips.

Keith’s eyes squeeze shut from the pressure, unable to deny the heat building up in his stomach. The darkness of his eyelids flash with white for a split second. Then nothing. Then white. Then nothing. Then a knowing smirk and lips wrapped around the tip of a joint.

Keith forces his eyes open. What the hell? No way. He’s not thinking about him. Not now. That’s not what a good person would do.

Isaac’s grip on Keith’s hips tighten and Keith tries to straighten himself out. Okay, just don’t think about him. Simple. Don’t think about that smirk or that smooth way he rolls his hips. Or how good that hip roll would feel into _him._ If he’d just crowd Keith behind the counter and _roll-_

_Fuck._

Fuck fuck fuck.

Keith lifts his head up, eyes searching the white wall in front of him for something to distract himself with but he’s already there - already at that tipping point - and he comes onto Isaac’s bedsheets with a strangled moan and a flash of Lance’s body pressed behind him, dick deep in his ass and Keith’s body jerking like it is now and-

He comes to it. He comes to the slightest, accidental thought of it.

Keith lets his eyes drop closed again, bottom lip between his teeth.

Oops.

 

* * *

 

It’s not a big deal. It happens to everyone. Keith just got a little ahead of himself - let himself fantasize a little bit too much. It’s not like he _actually_ wants Lance to fuck him. Keith might be thirsty but he’s not _thirsty._

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he gets dressed for Saturday night. And if he chooses a tight crop top that he thinks is more Lance’s style over the other, so fucking be it. He’s not dressing for _him._ He’s dressing for tips.

Keith clasps the back of the thin black choker around his neck and stares at his reflection. More skin? Got it: crop top and hair pulled up. The tight black leggings and matching stud earrings? Extra. But if it’s gonna get him money then he’ll wear the shit out of it.

“Jesus,” Shiro replies, taken hesitantly aback as Keith walks through the living room towards where he’s waiting at the door, boots clacking against the floor.

But Keith just grabs his jacket with confidence, eyes straight ahead. “Time to make that tip money.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

Keith has never been given such good advice in his life. It’s like the floodgates have been pried open and the sea of waves crashing through are money. Tips. He’s raking it in like he’s never raked it in before and it’s pretty fucking amazing, he has to admit.

He’s not even bothered by the massive increase of getting hit on. That’s fun too. Everything about everything is just so fucking good, and Keith’s flying high like he’s just taken three shots of tequila.

_-Hold up!-_

Blue’s intro song fires up around the time it’s supposed to, the usual drift of the crowd moving from the bar to the stage like it always does. Keith wipes down his side of the counter as Shiro heads in back for more glasses, his interest spiking when the song that begins isn’t one he’s familiar with.

It’s calmer - still has a heavy beat, but… Much slower. More sultry.

Blue emerges from the curtains center stage, smiling at the whistles blown his way as he moves forward, stalking down the main strip to the beat, knees bent gracefully with each step. He moves over the ground like he weighs nothing, looking over his shoulder to throw a wink at one of the girls at a nearby table. She reacts in the shy, blushy way that about a third of them do. The rest either flirt back or turn to the people they’re sitting with and scream.

Keith doesn’t know which one he’d be. Definitely not the last one. Maybe the middle.

Shiro appears at his side like an unhelpfully perceptive imaginary friend. “You’re drooling.”

Shit, is he rea-

Keith freezes, but his hand is already up to his mouth, the realization that Shiro was joking setting in and he - Keith actually thought he was drooling.

Shiro’s eyebrows are to his hairline when Keith shoots him a glare. “Wow,” he laughs, although it’s more astonished than anything. “Are you really that into this guy?”

Keith groans but doesn’t have a chance to answer.

“I don’t get it. He’s not your type at all.”

“Shiro. Stop,” he snaps. “I’m actually having a good night. Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m not trying to, I’m just-...” his chuckle settles down. “You _do_ realize you’re not single, right?”

Keith huffs. “No shit.” Boy does he ever.

“Okay, just checking.”

He doesn’t press it after that, thankfully. Keith gets to continue on with his night, bathing in tips and compliments and friendly reminders to himself that it’s okay to _look._ Looking and admiring is fine, thank you very much. That’s all he’s doing anyway.

No harm no foul.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

$157. That’s how much Keith makes in tip money tonight. He technically doesn’t know if that’s even that much in the grand scheme of things, but it’s way better than his usual draw in.

Alright. So he knows what he needs to go shopping for this week. More crop tops and leggings. He’s got some extra money lying around now.

“Damn, was I right or was I right?” Lance postures as he nudges at Keith’s tip jar with a grin.

“You were right. Not bad.”

The crowd has filtered out of the club by now, just the cleanup crew and a few other people remaining. It’s oddly relaxed without all the yelling and loud music.

“Now you can pay rent,” Shiro mentions offhandedly as he wipes a rag through a glass a few feet away.

It leaves Keith rolling his eyes. “I was paying rent before. Just...incrementally.”

Shiro laughs. “Sure, you could call it that.”

Lance hums a laugh too, then lightly taps the counter in front of Keith, “Hey,” voice lowered when he gets his attention. He brings his thumb and pointer finger up to his lips like he did before, humming a suggestive, “Mm?” as he does so.

Keith watches him nod towards the parking lot, brows furrowing despite the dramatic increase in excitement. “It’s two in the morning.”

“No better time.”

“Shiro’s my ride.”

“What?” Shiro’s cropping up again, tuning into his name being dropped, no doubt.

“I can drive you home,” Lance waves it off like it’s no big deal, then turns to where Shiro’s still looking at him. “Yeah? I can drive him home, right Six?”

Shiro glances between Lance and where Keith is pinning him with a wide-eyed beg of a stare - not something he’s unfamiliar with in the least. “When?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“ _S_ _hiro…”_ Keith huffs.

But Lance is not put off. “I dunno, like...hour tops.”

And now Keith is just standing there, his entire body turned toward Shiro and eyebrows furrowing delicately because maybe if he goes for the sad little brother approach…

“That’s fine,” he finally gives in, “Just don’t be stupid, please.”

Lance grins in victory. “Nice.” Then he turns to Keith, “Lemme grab my bag and tell Hunk,” before moving off in the direction of the backstage dressing rooms.

Keith watches, silently, and then turns to where his brother is fixing him with a stare.

Keith smiles.

It doesn’t work. “ _Please_ behave.”

“Ugh, Shiro,” he groans, but it doesn’t cover his grin. “C’mon. What could I even do.”

“Don’t ask me that. You know that makes me start thinking of terrible things.”

“We’ll be fine,” he assures, just as Lance emerges from behind the scenes to meet up again, “ _I’ll_ be fine.”

And then he’s slipping out from underneath the bar and they’re out the door.

It’s the second time Keith’s in the back of Lance’s car, knees close enough to knock together if he lets them. It’s the second time Lance pulls the metal tin from the first aid kit and lights up. Only this time, it’s dark. This time, the spark of fire from the lighter casts an orange-ish glow on Lance’s face before extinguishing. Then it’s just the moonlight. And the street lamps. And Keith’s heightened sense of self-awareness.

“You look good,” Lance mentions cooly, the last puffs of smoke escaping from his lips as he reaches over, Keith’s pulse tripping when he loops the tip of his pointer finger underneath the thin band of his choker and tugs ever so gently. “I like this.”

It shoots sparks up Keith’s spine. He can feel them even after Lance has drawn his hand back and presented the joint to him, still as cool as ever. “Thanks,” he manages, and then takes a drag that shouldn’t burn his throat but does, his reflex acting up and pulling the cough from his lungs before he can stuff it down.

Lance straightens a bit, “Y’alright?”

And Keith feels the heat rise to his cheeks, his answer hitchhiking on the tail end of another cough. “Yeah.”

He hands the joint over, eyes elsewhere to avoid the look he knows he’s getting. He just needs to get it together. He can’t be thrown off by something as small as that. Relax.

“So I gotta ask…” He goes for it, voice still a bit strangled but getting better. “The k-pop. Are you doing it ironically or no?”

Lance purses his lips, smoke streaming out quickly so he can answer. “Ironic how?”

Really? Does Keith really have to say it? “I mean…”

“ _I_ like it,” Lance offers, staring down at the blunt as he rolls it in his fingers. “ _They_ like it. Nothing ironic about it.”

Keith nods. Alright then. “Okay.”

“It’s not your thing.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve just never considered someone stripping to it before.”

“And?”

Keith looks over, startled every single time by how close they really are in this back seat. “And what?”

“And now that you’ve seen it…”

He’s being egged on. As if Keith could let slip what he actually thinks of it - how closely he finds himself watching every time Lance takes the stage - every move. He takes the joint, thankful for the nighttime that covers up the heat in his face. “It’s fine,” he supposes, tip to his lips. “You’re good.”

He inhales like it’ll save him from the topic - from talking about it - but all it does is burn his throat and hurt his lungs and he bends forward, fist to his mouth as he coughs up a cloud of smoke into his lap.

God damn it.

Breathe.

“I’m fine,” he mutters stubbornly as he regains his breathing.

But Lance is taking the blunt from him, “It’s cool,” and when he's steadied himself, Keith straightens right into the hand sliding behind his neck as he says, “Here,” takes a drag, and then leans forward, mouth hovering inches from his.

Keith freezes, heart pounding in his rib cage as Lance’s thumb pulls gently at his bottom lip until his mouth drops open, and then he’s shallowly breathing out, the smoke billowing from his mouth to Keith’s.

Except.

Except Keith’s not breathing.

Keith’s not doing much of anything except panicking, eyes widened as the smoke mingles on his tongue before hitting a wall and pouring out of his mouth and into their laps.

Lance notices. Leans back a little. Not enough. “You’re supposed to breathe it in.”

Keith’s sure his pulse is unhealthy. “I-...I know you just...surprised me…” He knows what this is. What he’s supposed to do. He just never thought he’d be here, in his back seat, doing it with _him._

“Sorry.” Lance is annoyingly calm. “Try again?”

And Keith doesn’t know how he’s doing it because jesus - jesus how is he supposed to keep his cool when Lance is so suddenly in his space like this.

But he nods, determined to earn back at least a few of his bad boy points tonight. He will not fuck up this opportunity that has been presented to him. So he takes a breath through his nose, nudges his face a little closer, and lets his mouth drop open when Lance’s fingers coax it to.

And this time, he breathes in, no matter how subconsciously shaky it may be. He breathes it in and he lets it fill his lungs and he closes his eyes, because the voice in his head is telling him that if he leans in just a little bit closer he can press his lips to Lance’s. So he closes his eyes. And ignores the voice. And breathes the smoke out when Lance leans away with heavy eyelids and a grin on his face.

It’s intense.

And amazing.

And Keith knows himself enough to fake a yawn and say, “I’m tired.” Because he knows Lance will say something like:

“Want me to take you home?”

And then he’ll say, “Yeah, that’d be great.”

And then he won’t have to deny the little voice in his head anymore because he won’t be in the situation in the first place.

“I’m tired.”

“Should I drop you off?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

Shiro is asleep on the couch when Keith slips through the door, the muted TV flickering against where his phone lays face-down on the chest of his threadbare UIC shirt.

“Go to sleep,” Keith says quietly as he walks past, knowing it’ll be enough.

Shiro stirs, then mumbles groggily, “All your limbs’re attached to your body?”

“Yes, go to sleep.”

“Mmk.”

Keith makes it to his room before Shiro rises from the couch. He kicks his boots off and stalls in front of his mirror, reaching up to unclasp the choker around his neck. The ghost of a spark crackles down his spine. A finger at his throat. Then on his neck and against his bottom lip.

He could ignore the little ball of giddiness that bubbles up in his chest, but he’s too tired. So he simply drops down onto his bed, a grin tugging at his lips as he instantly drifts off to sleep.

This is the moment where it starts.  

This is the moment where things begin to complicate themselves.

 

* * *

 

 


	2. Ain't My Fault

“Mr. Keeeeeeith.”

Going back to work at the afterschool is a terribly rude awakening on Monday, the bus that drops off the kids from the elementary school pulling away for freedom as little feet run toward where Keith’s waiting.

“Wow, you’re big now,” he winces as five separate children cling onto his legs and waist. It’s more painful than it should be.

He gets zero help from Pidge, who is also in the middle of being attacked by a swarm of eager kids.

“Alright! First day of school done! Up top!” she cheers, grinning wickedly and high fiving each individual student as they let go of her.

Wouldn’t that be nice. To be let go of.

“Mr. Keith I’m in gymnastics now!”

“Me too - we’re in it together Mr. Keith!”

“Mr. Keif my tooth is loose.”

Keith begins the process of physically separating himself from the swarm - a combination of untangling limbs and taking steps backward until he’s got the space to breathe and distract them with a task. “I need two circles of five. First circle to form gets their granola bar first.”

It works.

There’s a lot of scurrying.

Keith is tired already.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

“So how’s the other job going?” Pidge asks it as she sweeps up a pile of spilled Cheerios, the afterschool’s broom apparently not replaced over the summer because it’s as shitty as ever.

The last child has been signed out and picked up, and Keith is draped on top of the table that’s been freshly cleaned of blue paint. “It’s going.”

“Brother going easy on you?”

“Hardly.”

“What about free stuff?”

“Not really.”

“Wow.” Keith peeks over at where Pidge is propping herself up with the end of the broom. “Why’d you take this job again?”

He stretches his arms out over his head. Okay, maybe he’s being a bit dramatic. “It’s not all bad. There’s good stuff.”

“Like…”

“Like not having to go to work until seven at night.” He ponders on it, eyes tracing over the individual ceiling panels above him. “And some of the people there are nice.” It’s not the first time Lance’s face has flitted through his mind today, but it’s the first time he’s had the opportunity to actually appreciate it. It’s only Monday. He has to wait a few more days before seeing it again.

Pidge is grinning smugly when he zones back in.

“What.”

“You liiiiike someone,” she sing-songs, but it’s more menacing than it is teasing. And then, as if a thought occurs to her: “Wait. Then you finally broke up with Isaac!”

Keith frowns. “No.”

“Oh.” It’s shattered. Now she’s just staring at him, and Keith knows that look. She’s trying to figure out what’s going on before he can tell her.

But he won’t be telling her. Because nothing’s going on. Because Lance is smoking hot but he’s still with Isaac. So there.

“Sydney wasn’t here,” he says instead, half as a distracting point, and half because it _has_ been weighing on his mind this whole day.

Pidge rolls with the topic change like she always does. “She’s on the roster, isn’t she?”

“Yeah.”

“Then she’s coming. You know her, she might’ve had a rough day and gone home early or something.”

Keith rolls onto his stomach. “You’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“I know.”

And if he falls asleep for a few minutes, cheek smashed against a freshly Clorox-ed tabletop, well, let’s just say Pidge is there to make fun of him for it when he jerks awake.

Because that’s what friends are for.

 

* * *

 

Keith makes it a point to go to Isaac’s on Tuesday night. Not because he’s trying to prove something to himself or anything. He just wants to be around him. Also because it grounds him.

They fight about Keith not answering his phone at work for the first half hour and then mellow out, TV flickering in the background. And he definitely doesn’t think about Lance when they’re having sex this time.

(Okay, he does but it’s only for a quick second because it’s an accident and he’s prepared for it this time.)

 

* * *

 

The week simultaneously grinds by very slowly and at breakneck speed. So when Thursday night comes, Keith is beyond ready to get back into the exciting swing of things.

He goes for a flowy red crop top this time - same choker - same earrings - makes sure he’s got his gloves, and then meets Shiro in the car.

Every other Thursday is Guys Night, so the crowd’s a little different, but Keith keeps up appearances and rakes in the tips (a little less than a normal night), wiping the counter down and watching intently as Blue helps a skinnier guy up onto the stage to sit in the Hot Chair - or more obviously, the lap dance chair.

Keith has specifically never watched Lance’s Hot Chair routine for...personal reasons… But there’s something about tonight - about the long week of waiting stretched out to finally being back - it’s got Keith hooked whether he wants to or not.

The song’s not a particularly lapdance-y song. But if anyone thought that’d stop Blue from smutting it up and putting a few questionably suggestive moves in there, they’ve clearly never seen him dance. Because he’s got it working, the hem of his shirt pulled up between his teeth and his entire body rolling fluidly as he straddles the ends of the chair, and effectively the guy’s lap, and how that guy doesn’t pop at least a semi, Keith has no idea, because he’s fighting one and he’s not even the one up there.

Okay. So maybe he was right and shouldn’t watch Blue’s Hot Chair routine. That’s fine. He was right the whole time. Good for him for being a good judge of his own limits.

Keith nods to himself. Alright.

Shiro leaves him be entirely. Probably sees him adjusting the crotch of his leggings in a very real attempt to hide something that he just simply doesn’t have the fabric to hide. It’s one of his brother’s more gracious moments. And Keith will be sure to remember it the next time he’s giving him shit for something.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

“Hey Gloves, I need a break. Wanna keep me company?”

And really, who is Keith to deny such a request?

“I’m taking my break now instead of later, okay?” he asks Shiro, who seems to have things under control as always. “Is that fine?”

Shiro nods in his direction as he pours a generous amount of Jack into a short glass. And that’s all the affirmation Keith needs before he’s slipping out and under with Lance yet again.

The moon is full and hanging low in the sky when they finally break outside. Lance whips his phone out and takes a picture, portrait length, and then brings it back down to start typing.

“Snapchat?” Keith supposes, the night’s air just a bit chilly around his exposed middle.

Lance nods as he finishes typing, “Yep,” and then motions toward the front of his car, Keith following suit and jumping in the passenger side. “Started a private one for Blue a while back and it took off for some reason. Allura caught word and wants me to keep it up. Here.”

Keith blinks as Lance positions his phone between them and up toward the rear view mirror, their faces reflected back to them at an angle that does both of them justice.

Oh. A selfie.

Lance goes for a classic duck face.

Keith panics and reverts back to his rebellious days - just fucking sticks his tongue flat out over his bottom lip, his nose scrunching up a bit as he does so.

Lance’s thumb taps against the circle at the bottom of the screen and they’re officially captured, looking like a pair of rebellious teenagers instead of twenty-somethings.

It’s…it’s fun, actually.

“That’s going on Blue’s?” Keith asks, and he’s already got his phone out and Snapchat pulled up when Lance holds his hand out for it.

He types something into his phone, and then Keith’s phone, and then hands it back to him, his feed refreshing and the name _2Blue4U_ coming up as the most recent.

Keith bypasses commenting on the ridiculous name and taps on the story right then and there, unapologetically curious as it plays out on his screen for him. The first picture is only around three seconds - a quick shot of a dressing room mirror and scattered beauty products on the table beneath it. Then, it’s a shot of the moon, a little hazy and not doing it justice - _break time!_ Lance has written beneath it with three of the ‘a-okay’ hand emojis. But it’s not what Keith’s looking for. No, what he’s looking for is the next one, and his stomach flips a little when it flashes on screen, their faces slightly pixelated from the dark but still very close together and vibing well. And it’s the little thing that Lance has written on the bottom that gets Keith’s pulse going again. _look who i got to come out w me!_

It’s cute. And they look really good together. And Keith is pretty sure this new addition to his snap feed is going to ruin him, but that’s something to stress about at another time, because now, Lance is stuffing his phone in his pocket and declaring, “Okay I change my mind. I don’t like it up here, I’m going back.”

Keith doesn’t have much time to react before Lance is wiggling his way through the empty space between the two front seats, his ass impossibly and unforgivably close to Keith’s face for a moment when he turns to see what the fuck is happening.

His knee bumps against Keith’s shoulder during his last push through, and then he’s collapsing into his normal spot with a mighty wobble from the car.

Keith has to take a second, steady himself, and then he’s good to look back at him. “Seriously?”

“It’s no good up there.”

“Are you crazy?”

“It’s much better back heeere,” he sing-songs the end of it, patting the spot beside him in a way that would suggest he’s already taken the weed out, smoked half of it, and had time to let it kick in.

But it’s very tempting, especially with the way Lance’s patting has become a purposely seductive stroke, his fingers caressing the upholstery in a come-hither manner that the situation doesn’t really call for.

Keith just stares. “Are you already high?”

“Trying to get there,” Lance answers quickly, “but some people won’t cooperate.”

A chuckle escapes him. This guy is seriously something else. But. “Okay fine, I’m coming. But set an alarm or something. The last thing I need is Shiro coming out here looking for us.”

“Will do,” Lance nods, and then his phone is out yet again as he does just that. “Half hour.”

“More like twenty minutes now,” Keith huffs as he pushes through the passenger side door, straightens his leggings as casually as possible, and then dips into the back seat with much less trouble than his counterpart - who has the joint and the lighter out but is casting Keith a judging look. “What?”

“You cheated.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t crawl through.”

“Of course not, I would’ve came back right into your lap.”

But Lance just continues on, shrugging jokingly and looking away. “I dunno man, that's kinda boring.”

What? “I’m not boring.” Lance may be joking but Keith’s reaction is real.

“You are a _little.”_

Keith grabs the stuff in Lance’s hand, bringing the blunt up to his lips and lighting it with a couple puffs, then a long hit. He can feel the eyes on him, but he won’t back down. “I’m the least boring person I know.”

It’s enough to have Lance laughing. “It was a joke. I’m joking, dude. You are definitely cool.”

Keith shoots him a look. “The coolest?”

“The coolest.”

“Cooler than you?”

Another chuckle. “Way cooler than me.”

Keith takes another long pull and then turns to the window, keeping it in his lungs for as long as possible before letting it out in a pointed stream. Well alright then.

“Gonna share or should I light my own?”

Oh yeah. He hands the joint over, eyes falling on Lance’s phone as it shines up between them.

Fifteen minutes.

“Did I mention I like your look?”

The phone dims just as Keith brings his eyes up to lock with Lance’s, that considering glint returning even in the darkness of the parking lot. Keith can feel the lightheaded drag kicking in already. Okay, maybe he went a little too hard too quickly. It’s not his fault though. He was provoked.

“You mentioned it,” he confirms, letting his eyes shut and tipping his head back against the headrest. “Wanna mention it again?”

“Sure. I like your look.”

“Thanks.” He breathes it out, although the praise _does_ do nice things to his chest, no matter how repeated it is.

There’s a beat of silence - comfortable - and then: “Hey Gloves?”

Keith keeps his eyes shut. “What?”

“I like your look.”

The smile that creeps at the corner of Keith’s mouth is hard to keep down. Okay. Again. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“Oh. Well did I mention that I like your look?”

Lance is grinning at him when Keith rolls his head over to look at him. Teasing.

Keith can’t help the laugh that makes his shoulders rise and fall against the seat. “No,” he finally gives in and plays along. “Tell me more about how much you like my look, please.”

“I like it,” Lance hums, resting his own head against the headrest now too. “It’s very cool.”

Keith chuckles. Very cool. “What else?”

“Hmm. I like your crop tops.”

“Do you, now…”

“Mhm. You have a nice tummy.”

He says it so absentmindedly that Keith has to look away, but not before catching sight of Lance’s phone.

Ten minutes.

“Thanks,” he finally answers, a hand brushing over his stomach thoughtfully. “You have a nice tummy too.”

Lance laughs. “It sounds funny when you say it.”

“I take it back, then. You don’t have a nice tummy.”

“Aw…”

“I’m kidding.”

“Good.”

“So what else?”

Lance readjusts himself. Takes a moment to think. “Mm. That’s it.”

“Yeah? That’s all you like about my look?”

“No,” he says, “But that’s all I wanna tell you.”

There’s something about it that makes Keith hang onto his gaze a little longer than necessary. He could go on and on about the things he likes about Lance’s look. But that’s for another time. A time when they don’t have - (quick glance) - seven minutes until they have to go back in and work.

“So…” Lance breathes out, patting the end of the joint into the mini ashtray in the back seat compartment and then looking at Keith. “Wanna make out?”

It hits Keith like a slap to the face - so hard that he’s not even sure if he heard right. “W-...what?”

But Lance is very calm. Very casual. Even when he asks it again, as if he really believes Keith didn’t hear him the first time. “Do you wanna make out?”

Yep, that’s what he said. He definitely said that both times. Keith does a surprisingly good job at not visibly losing his shit. “Why...are you asking me that?”

It’s a good question, he thinks. And Lance’s answer is a shrug and a nonchalant: “It'd be fun.”

Keith swallows thickly, his heart skipping over a beat. Because yes, it would be fun. It would be _very_ fun. But. But that can’t actually happen, right? “Uh…”

“It’s cool, man. It was just-”

“No, yeah,” - wait - “I mean...yeah it would be.” He’s doing a good job on the outside, but the inside is a different story. Because no. He isn’t supposed to do this, right?   

But Lance is so calm. Has his head on so straight. And this clearly isn’t a big deal for him, so it shouldn’t be for Keith either then, right? If it doesn’t mean anything. If it’s just for fun.

Keith’s hot all over, getting even hotter as Lance throws an arm over the back of the seat behind Keith’s shoulders and leans his head in. He’s closing in and Keith’s heart is pumping overtime, the margin to come out clean quickly thinning with every beat. It’s just for fun.

Just for fun.

Keith draws his mouth the smallest fraction of an inch away - a last millisecond of indecision - and then lets Lance press their lips together. The hand that comes up to rest under Keith’s chin is as grounding as anything can be right now, and Keith swallows the giddy high in his chest and moves along with him, thoughts scattered to the wind...

Because...

Ohhh boy. Lance is a good kisser. A _very_ good kisser. He licks and presses in smoothly...glides his tongue over Keith’s...coaxes him confidently but gently to return the favor. It’s just about enough to make Keith forget why he was questioning this in the first place, the just-slick drag of their mouths together and apart almost deafening in the small space of the backseat. It _is_ fun. It really is. Keith still keeps his hands to himself, though, that little voice cropping up once again as Lance tips his head and swirls his tongue around Keith’s.

_chirp chirp chirp chirp!_

_chirp chirp chirp chirp!_

_chirp chirp chirp chirp!_

Keith blinks, reality slowly filtering in as Lance leans back and picks up his phone from where it’s going off between them.

“Ah man, that was so quick.”

The alarm.

It’s the alarm.

It’s time to go back to work.

Keith blinks again. Watches the slight but still noticeable way Lance’s chest rises and falls in slightly labored breath.

That...just happened.

Lance wipes his mouth with the back of his hand - unknowingly inspires Keith to do the same - and then he’s making sure everything in the car is in order before slapping his hands down on his knees and looking over. “Ready?”

Keith nods, giving his brain a little mental kick-start to get its shit together. Okay. “Yeah.”

They walk back into the dark club and the thumping beat as if nothing happened, Lance’s hands in his pockets and Keith scrolling through his phone to force the other parts of his brain into complying. They walk back in as if nothing happened because it didn’t. Not technically. Right?

They’re a few feet from the bar when Lance reaches out, smacking the back of his hand lightly on Keith’s chest before grinning at him - smirking even, maybe - and then turning to head towards the dressing rooms, flipping his hood over his head on the way.

Keith’s gaze lingers on him until he has the good sense to move on himself, a smirk gracing the edges of his own smile because… That just happened. They just made out. He just made out with Blue in the backseat of his car.

That giddy ball of nerves fizzles in the center of Keith’s chest again. Wait until he tells Shiro. Wait, no. Why the hell would he do that? Stupid. He’s just gonna play it cool and act like nothing happened.

“What,” Shiro asks before Keith can even pretend to act otherwise. “Why’re you smiling like that?”

Damn it. Okay there goes that plan. Keith just shakes his head, turning to check his tabs on the register. “You’re seeing things.”

“Am I?”

His lips tingle. “Yep.”

He probably shouldn’t be this lightheaded.

But he guesses there are worse things.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

**pidge**

_keith_

**i need you to follow someone on snapchat and screenshot a pic off their story for me**

_who? why?_

_2Blue4U_

**because youre my friend**

**and also if i do it he might know its me**

_weird but ok_

**thanks**

_yeah hang on_

_wAIT??? IS THIS THE GUY FROM WORK YOURE CRUSHING ON_

**just screenshot and send it please**

_ASKFJH_

**im not crushing**

**its a good picture i want it**

_i didnt realize you guys are so close_

**we’re not can you please send it**

_yeah yeah yeah hang on_

_ok here_

**thank you**

_now you’re in my debt_

**i’ll take steph for small group on monday so you don’t have to deal with her**

_it was a pleasure doing business with you_

 

* * *

 

“Dad’s dropping Space Jam back off here today. Dunno if he told you.”

Keith glances over from where he’s currently examining the fridge’s contents, expression flat.  “Of course he didn’t tell me.” Yeah right.

And of _course_ he told Golden Boy Big Bro Shiro. “I guess she has all her shots now. At least _we_ didn’t have to take her.”

“That cat is a mess.”

“Yeah but she loves you. That’s why she’s staying with us and not Dad.”

“She loves you too.”

“You’re her favorite human, though.”

Keith scoffs, finally deciding on his snack of choice and pulling it out from the back of the refrigerator. “I’m honored.”

“You should be.”

“When’s he dropping her off?”

“Sometime this afternoon, I guess.” Shiro pauses then - makes sure he makes comfortable eye contact when he says it. “You should probably be around when he gets here, but I know you don’t wanna be.”

Keith peels the lid of his yogurt off with a decided tug. “Nope.”

It can’t be anything Shiro isn’t expecting. “Well I tried.”

“Alright, I’m gonna be at Pidge’s. Let me know when he’s gone.”

“Sure.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

Pidge’s apartment is just a convenient walk down the street - past the intersection and the building they have afterschool in and down a little bit more. It’s close and makes things easy because it means Keith doesn’t have to take the car that he and his brother share. It also makes things easy because it means he’s close to a functioning Nintendo 64.

“So tell me more about this guy.”

Keith leans a bit to the right, his thumb angling the controller’s middle joystick as their characters whip around a dusty corner. “What guy.”

“The _guy,”_ she elaborates without taking her eyes off the screen. “You know, the one you made me creep on through Snapchat.”

She hurls a green shell and it barely skirts past Keith’s car, Yoshi remaining safe for now at least. He should’ve expected it - both the shell and Pidge’s interest in Lance. “Not really much to say.”

“Sure there is.”

“I mean,” okay...just start with the basics, then. “He’s a dancer at the club. We smoked together a couple times. That’s it.” He lets the fact that they made out last night slide. Although remembering it certainly does a good job at making his lips tingle again. He still can’t believe that actually happened.

Another green shell.

Yoshi escapes it by a fraction of an inch.

“Does he have another job besides this?”

The calm way she continues on doesn’t mean anything. She’s good at masking her voice while secretly plotting on the inside.

Keith shrugs. “I dunno.”

“Well where’s he from?”

“I...dunno.”

“How old is he?”

A frown. “I dunno.”

“Wow, you don’t know much of anything, do you?”

Keith huffs, taking his eyes off the screen for one stupid second. “No, Pidge. I told you we aren’t close.”

It’s the second that she decides to strike, her third green shell firing off and cracking right against Keith’s bumper, Yoshi wobbling and then spinning out with a long, drawn out cry. Keith watches it unfold on the screen with zero amusement, the computer players whizzing past his stalled car. It’s a good thing he’s been friends with Pidge for years now.

“We’ve only had a few actual conversations,” he explains with an even tone, and then pulls himself together enough to get back onto the track. “But he’s cool.”

“And you like him.”

“If you mean that in a ‘he’s cool’ way, then yes.”

“Yeah, I don’t mean that.”

Her smirk is lurking beneath an expression of calm. It’s when she’s most dangerous. And Keith’s already been bumped to last place...she’s kicking him while he’s down.

“Okay. Fine, he’s hot,” he supposes offhandedly, like he hasn’t actually been thinking about how very fine he is for the better part of these past two weeks. “And funny.”

It’s what Pidge wants to hear. For sure. “You could break up with Isaac so you can get with him.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” It’s not a good reason, but if Keith had to think of a new one every time Pidge suggested they’d break up, his brain would be dust. “And just because he’s hot doesn’t mean I wanna get with him.” Except oops, because he already kind of did a little bit.

But Pidge doesn’t know that. “So what, you’re just gonna stick with Isaac and admire this new guy from afar? That seems...completely doable for you...” There’s doubt in her tone.

Keith gets it. _Fuck_ does he get it. But, “I’m not breaking up with him. And I’m not cheating on him either. I can handle myself.”

“Alright. If you say so.”

She blasts through the finish line in first place, camera panning and music jaunty in her victory.

Keith rolls in dead-ass last.

 

* * *

 

It’s got him thinking.

Unfortunately.

He can’t break up with Isaac because he doesn’t want to and they’ve been together for three fucking years. And what, Keith is just gonna throw all that away because this ridiculously attractive dancer, that he’s spent maybe four hours with in total, is fixed into his brain just a little bit too much? Yeah right. It’s just the excitement of being around a hot new guy. Flirting a little bit. Getting a little cozy in the back of his car. It’s not actually anything. The flirting isn’t actually anything. The making out isn’t actually anything, but there’s still that nag of doubt in the back of his head, so when it happens a second time - when it’s late and they’re in the backseat and Lance is slowly circling his tongue around Keith’s, Keith pulls away for a second - just long enough to breathe one breath - to let it tumble out of his mouth on the end of it: “I have a boyfriend.”

It stalls things, Lance’s mouth still parted almost against his. And then he’s stammering as he moves to lean away, scrambling a little - “...shit, i didn’t kno-” but Keith doesn’t let him. He doesn’t let him get away without going after him, heart racing as he licks back into his mouth because there, he said it. He said it and he doesn’t have to feel guilty any more. Like he’s hiding anything.

Lance makes another noise. Thrown off by the push forward and - “Whoa um...” - lips slick, his hands gently dragging Keith’s down away from his neck but not letting go. “Did I just...imagine you saying that last thing?”

He’s out of breath. Just a little. It only makes it more exciting. “It’s okay.”

But Lance has leaned away for real this time, brows furrowing. “You sure? ‘Cause _‘I have a boyfriend’_ usually means _‘I have a boyfriend - stop making out with me’_.”

“ _Don't_ stop making out with me.”

“But you’re n-”

“Hey.” Keith drops it...180’s it...brings his shoulders in a little and blinks up at him through his bangs… “You said it was just for fun, right? Let’s just have fun.”

Lance watches the transformation from his seat a few inches away, eyes dragging over the display in front of him. There's something going on in there - something Keith doesn't want to acknowledge right now. But then he doesn't have to, because Lance tilts his head back down, slotting their lips together and sliding his tongue back into Keith’s mouth.

Just for fun.

 

* * *

 

**ok you were right**

_im always right_

**i know and you really were this time**

_can i have some specifics please_

Keith lets his head fall back against the couch’s armrest, the soft din of the living room’s overhead lights simultaneously lulling him to a place of calm and driving him crazy.

**about lance**

_who?_

_oH._

**yeah**

_why what’s happening?_

**nothing**

That’s a lie. Keith taps his fingers against the side of his phone and then bites the bullet, his stomach flipping a little when he sends it.

**i keep getting high and accidentally making out with him**

There’s a long stretch of no reply, and it works into that small tinge of guilt that he keeps trying to bite down. When it finally does come, Keith can’t tell if Pidge’s reaction helps him or not.

_that’s not nothing?_

_also how do you accidentally do that?_

**i dont know?**

**i mean it’s not really an accident we both agreed that it was casual**

_casual_

**yeah**

_casual making out_

Keith frowns. Hm. It does sound a little sketchy, now that someone else is saying it.

_does isaac know_

**no**

_??_

_you have to break up with him??_

**pidge** Here we go again.

_i know i know but keith_

_friend_

_no offense but he’s kind of a dick to you_

Ugh here we go a _gain._

**i know**

_what’s the problem then_

_i’ll go with you_

**thats not the issue**

_then whats the issue?_

Keith huffs, not really in the mood and kicking himself because he should’ve known it’d come to this. It usually does.

He opts to take a quick breather from the situation. Checks Tumblr. Swipes open Snapchat to check who viewed his picture of Space Jam with the crown sticker. Shiro. Pidge. People from college. Snapchat user _hahathenwhat._

Keith’s brows furrow. _hahathenwhat?_   Who the hell is that?

His phone buzzes twice as the drop-down for new messages pop onto the top of his screen. Still Pidge.

_sorry for bringing that up again. you know how i feel about how he treats you. i’ll support you in your “casual makeout” endeavors if you really need someone_

_also you agreed to take steph for small group on monday and i really dont wanna lose that_

Keith finds himself laughing through his nose at the last part, the sudden sound making Space Jam slowly lift her head and blink at him from across the room. Typical Pidge. She just _had_ to tack that on, didn’t she?

**thanks Missy P.**

_no prob Mr. Keef_

 

* * *

 

Things feel monumentally better. He’s not 100% sure _why,_ per se, but they do. And he’s not gonna question it. He’s just gonna let himself feel better and stand here and watch one of the buffer dancers give a woman a lap dance to Grind With Me, because they can’t seem to get through a single work week without that song being used. A staple in the stripping world, he supposes. She giggles and he fronts and Keith slides over two shots of Fireball to the lady across the bar. It’s a normal night. And then Lance shows up.

“Hey mami.”

Keith wishes he could say he’s getting used to being called that, but it’d be a gigantic fucking lie. There’s just something about it that gets to him. In a good way, of course. Could be that he likes the way it rolls of Lance’s tongue. Could be that he likes how he hasn’t heard Lance call anyone else that except him - an exclusive privilege.

Either way, Keith wipes his hands with the counter rag, saving that thought for later to focus on scrubbing away where he over-poured a little of the Fireball onto his fingers. “What’s up, Blue.”

He’s clearly just walked in, his black snapback still on and a tight white tank top clinging nicely beneath an open jacket.

The music overhead swells, and then calms in time for him to answer. “Just saying hi,” he grins at Keith from where he’s leaning. “And checkin’ out tonight’s outfit.”

Oh? So that’s why he stopped over. “Made a special trip just for that?”

“That a bad thing?”

Keith tosses the rag back onto the counter. Okay. Two can play that game. A grin starts to creep into place as he sighs like he’s being inconvenienced, then puts his hands on his hips in an obviously played up pose.

Lance laughs, “Lemme help,” and then leans forward onto the counter, a hand reaching up and over Keith’s head in an obvious offer.

And if Keith takes it without so much as a stutter, reaching high to grab on and then turn in Lance’s hold like some sort of crop-topped-tight-pantsed ballerina, that’s fucking fine. Nothing wrong with showing off a little bit, right? Definitely not when he can hear Lance mumble something under his breath in an appreciative tone as Keith arches just a little bit to show his back side.

He gives one more turn, just for show and because Lance is still watching, and his boots squeak against the floor just as Shiro emerges from the back with another impressive stack of glasses in his arms.

It doesn’t stop him from easing to a halt when he sees them though, his look of concentration falling into one of vague concern. “What’s this…”

His voice has slipped into something deadpan as Lance lets go and eases back onto the other side of the counter. Oops. There’s dread - tiny but real - and it begins to sink in Keith’s chest until he’s saved by the sudden rush of customers up to the bar.

They both slide into action without further discussion, and Keith’s halfway through making his first raspberry-vodka-sprite when he catches Lance backing away from the bar, hands in his hoodie pockets and grin devious like he just got away with something.

He winks at Keith.

Keith trips up a little and waves goodbye.

He swears he’s cool.

 

* * *

 

 Monday afternoon rolls around much like every Monday afternoon rolls around. Pidge offers Keith several friendly reminders that he promised to take the impossibly energetic second grader for his small group, and he does, and it’s as challenging as he thinks it’ll be, and he definitely gives Pidge credit for dealing with her every day, but then all the kids are signed out and taken away and they drag themselves to Pidge’s apartment for dinner and a nap.

“Sydney still hasn't showed…”

Pidge watches from the other couch as Keith picks at his chicken shawarma but never actually ingests it. “New school year. New teacher. Maybe it’s still not going as good as everyone hoped.”

Keith frowns into the takeout bin. That’s probably what’s going on, whether he wants to admit it or not. Sydney’s pretty high functioning, but she isn’t-...she doesn’t do well with _change._

“Maybe you can call her parents tomorrow. See what’s up. You at least have a right to know if she’s still in the program, right?”

He makes a noncommittal noise and stabs at a piece of chicken.

Pidge continues regardless. “I’ll take that as a yes. Now eat before it gets gross and you complain that you waited too long.”

Keith begrudgingly obeys.

And time passes.

Pidge has already finished her sandwich, commented on how crispy the falafel was, and thrown it out in the kitchen by the time Keith’s mood decides to lift. Turns out he just needed to eat - just needed food in his stomach for his moping to disappear almost entirely.

“What did I say?” Pidge says, arms stretched out in dramatic accomplishment.

Keith rolls his eyes with a huff of a chuckle and pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time. 7:17. Shiro tagged him in something on Instagram, there’s a reminder to check his bank account tomorrow, and he’s got a snap from-

He raises an eyebrow. There’s that name again. “Pidge.”

“Mm.”

“You know who-” he squints to read it, “- _hahathenwhat_ is on Snapchat?”

Pidge thinks for a brief moment before arriving at the same conclusion as Keith. “Mm-mm.”

Weird.

“ _Ha ha, then what_ ,” he mumbles to himself as he thumbs at Snapchat and then opens the mystery snap.

It’s of a cat - a cute white one with gray stripes, its tail wrapped around itself as it lays in someone’s lap. But what’s weird about it is the text typed in on the bottom. _we should def have a cat playdate ;)_

Another frown makes its way across Keith’s face. What the hell?

“Who is it?”

“I dunno.” But he’s gonna find out.

Keith covers the camera with his palm until the screen is black and then takes the picture - creating a dark space where he can type in: _who is this_

“Haha, then what...” Pidge thinks out loud from her spot on the opposite couch. “Like that thing ‘stereotypical fuckboys’ say, right?” She uses air quotes for ‘stereotypical fuckboys’.

It’s helpful but still a mystery, more and more pieces adding up but leaving Keith completely lost. He’s not going to know who this person is until he gets a snap ba-

_Snapchat_   
_from hahathenwhat_

Oh.

Okay. That was fast.

Keith unlocks his phone again, pulse running a little fast as he taps open the new snap, then tilting into a full-on sprint as a familiar face lights up his phone - dark eyes - tan skin - nice jawline stretched out in a teasing rendition of the very same tongue-face Keith made several nights ago with-

Keith’s eyes widen, heart dipping and phone brought in tightly against his chest as he throws a look at where Pidge is now very much engaged.

“What?”

“Oh my god.”

“What? Who is it? Tell me.”

His heart is going so fast, is this healthy - “It’s Lance.”

It takes a second to register, and then Pidge is grinning from ear to ear. “No way.”

No fucking way, is right. How’d this happen? How’d Lance not only get his name, but make it so Keith had his name too? Oh shit. Oh shit it was probably when he was putting the name for Blue in his phone that one night. Oh man, it’s a good thing he had Pidge screenshot that picture of them instead.

“Are you gonna snap him back?”

Keith chances a peek at his screen, but the snap’s time has ran out. “I dunno. Should I?”

“Uh, _yeah_.”

Oh shit. “I can’t do a selfie though.”

“No way, you don’t look very good right now.”

It’s brutally honest, but Keith can’t even manage to get upset when he’s currently too busy fighting down the butterflies swarming in his stomach. What does he do? Damn it, why can’t Space Jam be here so he can just take a picture of her like the situation calls for?

He’s gotta answer. He’s gotta do _something._

“I’m just gonna do my feet,” he decides last minute, already framing his stretched out legs in the shot. He bends one just a little bit at the knee, thankful that he at least wore his good black jeans today. They contrast pretty well with the deep red of Pidge’s couch.

“That’s kinda lame.”

Yes, but: “Already done,” he says, throwing on a filter that makes it look at least a little bit artsy. **she’s cute** , he types, **space jam would like her.**

He sends it off without another thought and lets his legs relax back against the couch.

Not bad.

He handled that pretty smoothly. (Except for the panicking and indecision and all that.)

_Snapchat_   
_from hahathenwhat_

Oh fuck, that was so quick. Definitely not enough time on the other end for panicking or anything stupid like that.

Open.

Lance is still smiling wide in this one - still as handsome as ever - somehow even more-so with the dog filter on, two furry ears sprouting from the top of his head. _stocking tmrw??_

Stocking. Stocking the bar. That’s right, it was a Tuesday inventory day that they actually started talking on.

Keith quickly repositions his legs for another boring leg snap, butterflies still swarming no matter how truly boring it is. **wasnt planning on it**

Send.

Okay.

If this is actually going to be a full conversation, he needs to go home and not look like complete tr-

_Snapchat_   
_from hahathenwhat_

Oh my fucking god.

“Everything alright over there?”

Keith must be making some sort of face. “He’s so fast.”

“Huh. Looks like you’re not the only desperate one.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response - just grounds himself in the moment by repeating his _‘wasnt planning on it’_ response in his head before opening Lance’s newest snap - the one where he’s still sporting the puppy ears, but this time his bottom lip’s pushed out, significantly less happy.

He’s...he’s pouting.

Keith told him he wasn’t going to be around tomorrow and he hit him back with a pouty snap.

This boy.

Okay fine. Keith can definitely swing around the club tomorrow after work. Especially if Lance is there.

 **when are you practicing** He just types it into the chat option under their open messages, because you can snap your feet only so many times before you start to feel truly stupid.

The little notification that Lance is typing appears on his phone. Typing… Typing… He waits patiently, confused as to how it takes him longer to write a message than it does to frame, filter, and send an annoyingly good picture. It doesn’t make sense.

_5ish_

What? How did it take so long for such a short frickin’ answer? Whatever. Focus.

**im still in work then but i might be around later**

He hopes they’re both on the same page - that he’s doing a fine enough job of hiding the fact that he’s literally only going so he can see him. He can pretend to count bottles once he’s there - write some shit down - just as long as it’s not obvious why he’s really there.

Lance’s reply back neither confirms nor denies anything.

_sounds good mami ;)_

Keith takes a steadying breath.

This fucking boy.

 

* * *

 

 

Weirdly enough, pretending to work is somehow harder than actually working. Keith doesn’t get it. But he holds onto the clipboard and pretends like he’s writing shit down when in reality, his attention is far more engaged with the movement out the corner of his eye.

Lance is on the pole again this early evening. He switches between trying moves with his song and trying it slower without - body lifted and spinning around with grace - and you’d think it would be annoying, the constant start and stop of k-hop, but it’s the farthest thing from. Especially when he hums the melody to himself, a grunt or two here and there as he lifts his entire weight and swings it around.

“You sure do practice lot for someone who doesn’t ever use that.” Keith knows he’s being a distraction, but can you blame him? He doesn’t have any actual work to do, _and_ he’s got this sweet behind the scenes look at the club favorite’s new pole routine. If it ever makes it off the ground, that is.

Lance’s answer comes in the form of an amused smile and lifted eyebrows, his biceps flexing as he lifts. “Practice makes perfect.”

Hm. Well, Keith could definitely watch him practice until then, abandoning the clipboard to lean against the counter appreciatively, chin in his hand. “Looks pretty perfect to me.”

That pulls a laugh from him, breath a bit labored as he hops down to tug his snapback off and run a hand through his hair, his eyes are sparkling when he slides it back on. “Not yet.”

It’s an interesting answer. The answer a perfectionist would give. But Keith’s stared at his Blue Rider routines enough to know that they’re never the same. The dance moves are pretty similar, and jesus knows he does more dancing than stripping sometimes, but the other little added things always change - are always different - off the cuff. He’s too busy having fun to maintain a rigid routine. It’s what makes him stand out so much from the other dancers. So to think he’s trying to perfect something before performing it...

Keith zones back in, tone even from where he’s still leaning against his hand. “Gonna overwork it...”

It’s sent out into the long space between them - over the bar top and weaved through the tables and up onto the stage - and when Lance hears it, he throws an unexpectedly interested little look Keith’s way. “What, you think you can do better?”

Keith blanks for a second. What? “That’s not what I said...” But Lance is still looking at him, a beat longer than normal... “But…” he finds himself supposing, like it’s being drawn from him, “...I mean, it can’t be _that_ hard.”

Lance’s playful hum turns into a full blown grin. “It’s pretty hard.”

“Nah.”

“I just make it look easy.”

And okay. There’s that cockiness that works at Keith in just the right way. He smirks. “I could do it.”

Lance’s eyebrows lift again, this time with a sort of amused resignation as he takes a few steps from the pole and then gestures openly towards it. “Be my guest.”

It’s-...oh _shit_ , Keith didn’t actually _mean_ it. Keep up appearances. Laugh it off. “Really?”

But Lance just continues to wait, hands out and looking coolly smug. “All you.”

It’s an offer - a challenge, more like. And damn him, if Keith’s ever been one to back down from a challenge. Especially if the stakes are relatively low and _especially_ if a cute boy is involved.

Two for two.

Alright. He can do this.

Now invigorated by the opportunity to show off, Keith pulls away from his spot at the bar, straightening the cutoff shirt he managed to change into after work before coming here. He’s even more thankful now, as he approaches the stage with confidence - half of it even _real_ confidence - and stops at where the edge comes up waist-high.

“I got this.”

The hand up that Lance offers turns into more of a double-handed lift - Keith’s sneakers lifting off the ground and then touching back down on the stage. He’s lifted. Literally. Lance just fucking plucks him up from the floor and sets him back down in front of himself with barely a grunt of effort.

And isn't _that_ something for a later time.

“So this is what you see every night,” Keith supposes thoughtfully, the view from up on the stage much more different than he imagined it’d be. It’s wide open on all sides - vulnerable in a way that almost hits him with a weird, out of place vertigo. Keith’s used to being tucked away behind his bar - the bar that’s a straight shot ahead and is actually _way_ closer from this point of view than he thought, whoever’s on stage probably able to see him way clearer than he assumed they could. Which is... Wow, he hopes Lance hasn’t noticed how much he stares at him when he’s dancing.

Keith steadies himself. He can’t think about that right now. He’s in the middle of something.

The few steps that he takes toward the back of the stage are drowned out by the music, although the melody is much lower than when its jacked up for working hours. He turns. Eyes the pole. Takes a breath.

Okay.

Time to impress.

His first step lifts off the floor with confidence, but is instantly cut off with an interrupting: “Uh, wait-”

\- skidding stop - “What?”

“What’re you doing?”

Keith flicks his gaze from Lance, to the pole, then back at Lance again. What is he doing? “I’m gonna run at it.”

“Yeah, don’t run at it.” There’s a grin on his face, but his adamancy is very real. “You’re gonna dislocate something - just start with a lift from next to it.”

The desire to sass back runs deep, but Keith is smart enough to cap it for several reasons. One: this guy knows what he’s talking about. He’s been practicing this routine for however long now, and no doubt has a vastly better understanding of the intricacies of pole work than someone who’s dicking around with it for the first time. Two: you can only be so sassy with someone before you start to get annoying - something _Keith_ has a vastly better understanding of than most people. And three, and he really can’t stress this enough: Keith really, _really,_ doesn’t want to dislocate his arm.

So he approaches the pole as advised, swallowing down the pointed comment trying to force its way out of his mouth, and reaches to wrap his hands a little bit above his head. The hoist up is about 70% less graceful than he’s aiming for, and it has his hands slipping, legs not even getting the chance to try and wrap around before the soles of his shoes are slamming back down onto the stage again.

Swing and a miss.

“Warm up,” he explains without Lance even prompting him. He doesn’t even look at him. Just tries it again.

Another lift - weird weight distribution - hands white-knuckling around the pole and he gets his legs up quickly enough to wrap around but then he’s slipping again, shoes unable to cross and sure to touch down when there’s a sudden presence behind him - a hum of reactionary surprise and two hands supporting him under his thighs. It takes a second to process but then he’s doing it - he’s being held up with Lance’s help. His close help. His very close help.

Keith adjusts his grip on the pole above him, noting the solid warmth of Lance’s body pressing against him from behind - the confident hands holding him up just below his ass.

It’s close. Keith smirks, the warmth spreading. “Aren't you getting a little handsy?” He doesn’t turn his head, and is certain it’s the right choice when Lance’s own smirk breathes against his ear.

“Why, you gonna tell your boyfriend?”

It’s teasing - not at all aggressive like it could be - but _definitely_ still a loaded question. Keith lets his smirk grow, the thought of potential drama stoking a fire in him that should probably be concerning, but is just the opposite in this moment in time. If Isaac could see him now - see him and Lance. “Turn me and I'll reconsider.”

Lance exhales a quick laugh through his nose but then does as he’s asked, slowly circling around the pole with Keith in tow as he clings to it. They’re measured but relatively smooth movements, and Keith can’t help the chuckle that bubbles up as Lance cheers him on quietly, “Yaaaaay you’re doing it…” Because Keith is literally doing nothing. He’s doing nothing but letting Lance carry him around the pole. Zero effort. But Lance is still hamming it up regardless. It’s silly and it throws the mood from one end of the spectrum to the other, neither of them noticing until Keith’s toes are touching back down onto the stage again.

“Nailed it,” Lance jokes, and his hand lingers just a little longer, perched around to Keith's lower back from the natural movement when Keith turns to face him again.

The pole is protruding and uncomfortable on his spine but Keith leans back against it anyway, for the sake of keeping up appearances. The hand disappears. “Nailed it,” he repeats, eyes rolling closed and a smile tugging at his mouth.

They’re ridiculous.

Seriously.

“So... _about_ that boyfriend.” Lance is watching him calmly when Keith peeks an eye open.

Oh man. Here it is.

“What about him.”

“Just curious,” he shrugs, moving to rest his hand on the pole a few inches above Keith’s head and his posture easing into it when he says, “You two must be pretty solid to let each other make out with other people and stuff.”

It’s not a judgement, his tone remaining even except for the slight tinge of doubt laced between the words. It’s slight but it's enough - enough to have Keith’s stomach twisting a little with guilt. Isaac being cool with him doing something like that? Seriously? “Yeah…”

He aims to say it with enough confidence that Lance accepts it and doesn't press any further, but it's clear he's done a piss-poor job when Lance’s eyebrows come together a bit - like he's trying to figure something out. “That...still okay? ‘Cause not gonna lie - havin’ a little trouble with it.”

Keith steels himself over, hitting the mark this time. “Trouble with _what_ exactly?”

But Lance is just shrugging again, cool as ever. “I don't wanna be _that guy,_ ya know?”

“...I don't?”

Lance laughs at that, eyes closing a second before fixing back onto him, the space between them tighter than it should be considering the topic of discussion. “Not really into the whole ‘homewrecker’ thing too much.”

The amusement in his voice doesn't mask the honesty, and to _be_ honest, it doesn't help the growing sense of guilt in Keith’s gut. But it's fine. Brush it off. “You make it sound like we’re hooking up or something.” Because that would be monumentally worse than just casually making out a couple times, wouldn't it? Kissing is  _nothing_ compared to actually hooking up.

The sentiment must translate because Lance is chuckling again. “You know what I mean,” he says then, leaning back to give some space. “I don't want it to be like...an issue or anything.”

That’s fair. That's fair, right? Keith doesn't want that either. “It's not an issue.” Even though it is kind of. Until he gets his shit together, at least. His confidence seems to be doing a piss-poor job again, so he goes for it once more, “Hey,” getting the eye contact again, “it's not an issue, Lance.”

He holds it, blue eyes blinking back at him for what feels like just a touch too long before closing, an amusingly out of place hum of a groan escaping Lance as he takes another step back but doesn't say anything to follow through - just kind of shakes his head at himself.

Keith furrows his eyebrows. “What.”

“You're gonna think I'm a huge dick.”

“Why…”

“That first night we talked,” he starts, casual still, “you told me but I was pretty high and like, I retained it for that half hour-ish and then completely forgot your real name.”

Forgot his-

What?

Keith blinks, fighting down the instinct to physically react. Because wow, _okay._ That’s definitely a wake up call. And Lance is still so calm, if not a little sheepish. It’s clearly not as big of a deal to him as it is to- “...Keith,” he says, the disappointment _just_ unnoticeable enough to slip through. Because how long has it been now? A few weeks that he’s been mildly obsessing over Lance, and here he didn't even know his name?

“Right. Yeah, duh.” Lance rolls his eyes at himself, his smile returning as he adds “Sorry, it just-...” with his fingers wiggling in the open air near his head as he mimics a bird whistle - a visual of an important piece of information flying away from his memory.

It leaves Keith waving it off, committing himself to his unaffected portrayal - “It’s cool.” - even if the sour little bubble of disappointment is still rising in his chest.

He doesn’t need to let slip the fact that it’s like an unintended slap to the face. _Definitely_ doesn’t need to mention how frequently Lance and his opinions have been a deciding factor for him lately. He needs to get his shit in order, is what the fuck he needs to do - is all this quick little exchange has made clear. He needs to get his shit in order and stay cool. Prioritize. Stop flying off at the handle and obsessing over people who obviously aren’t returning the favor.

“You done taking stock?” Lance asks, clearly not in on the reality check currently unwinding in Keith’s head.

But Keith nods, still committed to his role. And when a break is suggested, he nods again - stays cool like he should - and follows Lance out to the car that’s waiting for them against the setting sun.

They smoke a joint...calm and cool.

They don’t make out. Lance doesn’t _touch_ him. And Keith just listens to him talk, lounged up against the side of the car door and lips parting to let the smoke slowly escape.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

He shows up to Isaac’s still a little insulted and still a little high, ignoring his questions to push in through the front door and into him. He’s determined. A little over-dramatic. Still high, he thinks he mentioned?

Isaac calls him out on it and there’s more questions but Keith keeps pressing forward - pressing against - pressing him backward until they’re landing down onto the couch, Isaac’s hands on him because eventually Keith avoids answering enough questions and rubs against him enough that Isaac just stops talking altogether, which is perfect - which is what Keith wants - because it means he can focus and concentrate and ground himself in the feeling because he’s determined and a little over-dramatic and still high, lips parted and pressing over tightly-lined tattoos.

The couch creaks in time and Keith reaches back over his head, grabbing at the arm of it and eyelids falling shut, which is okay in theory - like most things. But in practice - like most things - it’s definitely not okay because the pleasure is flooding deep in his belly and he may be determined and over-dramatic but he’s also high. And he’s smitten. And the thoughts across his eyelids blur and twist into a curved smirk - knowing eyes - half-open hoodies and then no hoodies and then Lance, naked and crowding over him instead of Isaac, rolling his hips and fucking into him and _smirking_ because he knows how fucking hot Keith thinks he is and Keith tips over, fingernails digging into Lance’s-his-Isaac’s back and fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck-

Keith wrenches his eyes open but it’s too late. It’s no good. He’s coming and his body is tensing and trembling and-...

And fuck.

He did it again.

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 


	3. Hands To Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: brief non-penetrative noncon between keith and isaac during isaac's second scene

Okay, so here’s everything all laid out. Keith’s made a little mental list for himself because that’s what his brain decides to do at night when it isn’t relieved with instant sleep.

  1. he’s not good at pole dancing and should never attempt it ever again
  2. he’s also not that great at reading people’s level of interest in him, because he’s been disproportionately into Lance this whole time - way more than Lance actually is
  3. that’s okay because Keith shouldn’t even be _worrying_ about how into him Lance is when he’s got Isaac, who’s already very into him and committed



So everything's cool and he's just gonna chill a little bit with Lance and be a good boyfriend and all that shit. Because it's the right thing to do. And it'd be easier on his conscience. And yeah.

So yeah.

Thing is though, saying he's going to be chiller with Lance and actually being chiller with Lance are two completely separate things. It's not exactly easy. Especially when he's sauntering up to the bar Thursday night to proposition Keith during break time.

But Keith knows what that means. That means going out into the parking lot. That means getting into the back seat of Lance’s car, their personal space bubbles popping as soon as the doors slam shut. And Keith’s trying to be good. So he simply rubs the counter down with a rag and says, “Gonna take a pass on this one, man.”

And it's not the answer Lance is expecting. That's made perfectly clear with the way his eyebrows shoot up for the briefest of moments, words stalling on his tongue before picking back up again with a friendly smile and a natural, “Alright cool. See ya, then.”

It's like watching something that might not have happened at all - something that didn’t even happen in the first place. It’s quick and honest both ways and Keith only feels a little bit guilty when he glances over to the entrance, clean rag dragging around the ring of a glass as his eyes catch Lance’s figure disappearing through the front door by himself.

It’s not even guilt, really, Keith realizes as he swishes the rag around. It’s more like disappointment. For himself. He just feels sorry for himself because yes, he would very much _love_ to go hang out with Lance for a little bit. But he’s being good. And he doesn’t know how good he can be when he sets himself up for failure.

So he won’t.

Simple as that.

Cool?

Cool.

 

* * *

 

“Babe.”

…

“Babe.”

…

“Isaac, seriously?”

It’s not the first time this has happened - this one-sided exchange. And to be honest, Keith isn’t really in the mood to decipher what’s going on in his boyfriend’s head this particular afternoon, especially after last night’s shift. So he just-...he’s just so-... “You gonna tell me what you’re mad at me for or just sit there and ignore me...”

The other end of the couch shifts as Isaac moves, eyes still refusing to meet his.

Keith sighs. For real? “Is it about the pot?” he tries evenly, although he’s almost positive he’s hit the mark given the fact that they never really talked about it too much after the fact.

Keith had came home, still high and freshly disappointed by the fact that Lance didn’t know his name. And then one thing led to another and instead of talking, they’d just fucked. No arguing. Because why argue then when they can argue now, apparently?

“I already told you whose it was,” he feels the need to remind him, arms crossing over his chest because that’s where they seem to settle during moments like these. “You’re seriously mad because I smoked with someone else?”

“Not just that.”

“Oh. So you _are_ actually gonna be part of this fight. I thought I was the only one.” It’s adding unnecessary fuel to the fire, but Keith doesn’t care - doesn’t even care when Isaac finally looks over at him, only to hit him with one of those unamused glares. “What’s ‘not just that’ mean. What else.”

Isaac scoffs. “Seriously, Keith. You know how you get when you smoke.”

“What, you’re saying I can’t handle myself?”

“Oh you can handle yourself. And whoever else you’re with while you’re at it.”

Keith frowns. “You’re my boyfriend. I get handsy with you when we smoke because _you’re my boyfriend.”_

“And what about other people?”

“Other people aren’t my fucking boyfriend.”

Isaac huffs, the couch dipping once again as he pulls himself up, his back to Keith as he disappears into the hallway.

It leaves Keith alone, arms coming up in frustration before slapping back down onto his thighs. Fucking typical. How many times have they had this argument now?

“You make it sound like I’m sleeping with everyone,” he deadpans when Isaac returns, jacket on and cigarette perched between his lips as he reaches down to grab the lighter off the coffee table.

He doesn’t offer a response - nothing at all - and then he’s heading back into the hallway.

Keith collapses his head back against the couch, eyes resting on the ceiling to the sounds of Isaac moving further through the house, then the back door swinging open and slamming closed with a rattle.

Then there’s nothing.

And Keith is alone again.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

“Why the long face, mami?”

It’s Friday night. Things are busy. Keith’s making a lot of tips but it’s not enough to ward off the look that’s apparently obvious enough for Blue to see.

But: “No long face,” Keith insists, “Totally happy face only.”

Maybe saying it in pure monotone doesn’t help his case.

“Hm,” Lance hums to himself, head tilting a bit as he looks at Keith, “See, happy faces usually go like this...” His pointer fingers trace dramatically over the upward curve of his own smile. “But you,” they reach over by Keith now, hovering near his mouth and tracing the downward curve, “yours is going like this.”

Keith blinks slowly at him as the hands draw away, although the urge to smile _is_ tugging at the corners of lips now. “What’s your point.”

“Point is you need a break.”

Keith turns. “I don’t need a break.”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Do I need to go over the happy face/sad face thing again?”

Lance says it with a quirk of a grin, and this time Keith can’t help but feed into it, the happy endorphins or whatever they are firing off in his head. He sighs, glancing at the long empty bar top, and then puts his hands on his hips. “Just a quick one?”

“Hella quick. Won’t even know you’re gone.”

“Fine. But on one condition.”

“What.”

“Never unironically say ‘hella’ around me again.”

Lance laughs. “Deal.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

The moon is nestled in a group of heavy clouds, its light dimmed but only slightly. Keith watches it as Lance joins him against the back of the building, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. It’s a moment of calm, even with the pulse of the club’s music muffled through the brick behind them.

“So you wanna talk about it?”

The offer is honest but not in the way that it expects an answer - demands one. It may be why Keith feels more obligated to give in.

“Just stupid shit,” he mumbles, “stupid boyfriend shit.”

It’s not a lot to go off of, but Lance nods anyway, looking up to the moon too. “Lame.”

“Extremely lame.”

“That why you skipped out last night?”

Keith’s brows furrow, brain cycling back into his memory before focusing on the image of Lance pushing through the front doors by himself. “Oh. No, that was uh…” he lets his gaze fall to the stones beneath his feet. “That was something else.”

“Mm.”

Well… “Kind of…” if he’s being honest, “I mean that was a boyfriend thing too, but…”

That has Lance glancing over at him, cracking his fingers with a few pops before a knowing grin edges into his voice. “Uh oh, I know what that means.”

Keith meets his eyes, tired but not too much, “What.”

“Hm?”

“What’s it mean?”

Lance’s grin stays in place as he shrugs deliberately and looks away.

“You just said you knew.”

“Ah man…” Lance groans with an amusingly dramatic hoist away from the wall. He takes a few steps, stones crunching beneath his footfalls. “Told you people don’t like it when you make out with their boyfriends.”

It’s enough to make Keith’s face heat up. Just a little. “Actually, he doesn’t know.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Last night was more of a ‘me checking myself’ sort of thing.”

That makes Lance pause, face to the moon before turning to eye him with a smirk. “Check yourself?” Hm. Maybe Keith shouldn’t have told him _that_ much. “Check yourself on what?”

The smirk is teasing - not completely knowing, but knowing enough that Keith is starting to feel pinned to the wall without so much as a finger on him. Even alluding to the fact that he’s actively trying to keep his hands to himself is pretty damning. Because it means he just admitted that he actually has to _try_ \- actually has to distance himself to avoid touching. Which is. Yeah.

Keith stuffs his hands further into his pockets, attention pushed into the opposite direction. “Aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better?”

Lance laughs, contagious. “Are you saying your mood hasn’t done a complete 180?”

“Please. Talking about fighting with my boyfriend and being teased is so much fun, oh my god.”

“That’s sarcasm.”

“Nice spot.”

“That’s sarcasm too.”

“Incredible.”

“Don’t think about him.”

Keith rolls his head back over to fix Lance with a look.

But Lance just raises his hands in suggestion. “I’m just saying.”

If only it could be that easy. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“Just forget about him!” And then Lance is moving forward, smile on his face as he nudges Keith’s shoulder. “Take your night back! Have fun!”

He nudges again, persistent without being annoying, until it pulls another grin from Keith. “I’m at work.”

“Work can be fun.” And when he gets a doubtful huff of a laugh as a response, he elaborates, “Work with _me_ can be fun,” brows raising again in a way that makes his suggestion even more intriguing.

And Keith supposes he can admit, “It’s not terrible, I guess.” Fun isn’t necessarily the word he’d choose, though. Interesting, maybe. Tempting, definitely. But fun?

“You know you can’t go back in there frowning, right?”

Keith fixes back to Lance’s voice, curiosity pushing forward. “Can’t I?”

“Mm-mm.”

“Should I ask why not?”

“Because you came _out_ frowning,” he explains, teasing but on a different level this time, “Can’t go back _in_ frowning too.”

It’s cute. Persistently cute. “You really care about this.”

“It’s my job for the next-” he slides his phone out of his pocket and peeks at it, “-fourteen seconds.”

He set an alarm? Why is that even cuter? “What about after that?”

“Thaaaat depends on if you’re smiling or not. And you have- shit you have nine seconds-”

“Jesus, Blue-”

“-seven seconds-”

“-are you serious right no-”

“- _four...three!”_

“-Lance wh-” but then Keith can’t get anything else out - can’t even form any words at all because Lance has gone for it - just fucking chucks his Hail Mary and before Keith knows it, there’s a hand sneaking past his open jacket to tickle at the bare skin of his side, the feeling tingling up his spine and making him crumple away, eyes squeezing shut as the laugh bubbles up and escapes him at a level that surprises himself.

It’s a surprise on all fronts and his fist balls up to knock against Lance’s chest, who is now taking several dramatic steps away from the scene, tapping the timer’s alarm off and holding his hands out in front of himself as if to prove his innocence.

“I did nothing. My hands are clean - they never touched anyone,” he declares, continuing to make a wide arch around where Keith can’t shake the absolutely _stupid_ smile on his face.

“That’s cheating!”

“You’re smiling.”

“Because you fucking tickled me!”

“I’m positive I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jesus. Jesus _Christ_ Keith really doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with this guy. And he needs to stop smiling so hard what the fuck. Get a grip. “You cheated and I’m going back into work.”

“I didn’t cheat and yes please, after you,” Lance counters, continuing with his dramatics by bowing as Keith passes in front of him, a hand draped across his chest in excessive courtesy.

Keith just shakes his head, the irritation that he’d felt only minutes ago pushed so far back into his brain that all he can focus on is the smile on his face - the giddy warmth in his stomach - the good-natured roll of his eyes as Lance leans over him to push open the door for him - then the feeling of Lance’s hand settling lightly on the small of his back as if to help direct him back into the club.

They make it back just in time for this weekend’s fourth rendition of Grind With Me, thank god. What would Keith ever do if he missed this version - settle for the other ten times it’ll happen?

“See ya ‘round, mami,” Lance is nodding at him when Keith refocuses, his hood already pulled back up over his head.

Keith nods back while shrugging out of his jacket, “I’ll be here,” and then dips under the empty side of the bar top to rejoin Shiro behind it.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

The night rolls on. Lots of vodka cranberries. Lots of Blue Riders. A surprising amount of martinis, which is weird and they might not have enough martini glasses but they’ll deal with that when it happens. Keith cranks them out and adds to tabs and he does it all with a smile, partially because he’s expected to, but mostly because he can still feel the stupidly giddy little endorphins popping off in his brain from Lance’s cuteness outside. He supposes it’s kind of a disproportionate response, but that _was_ Lance’s endgame, right? To lift Keith’s mood? Because he did it, one way or another. And his mood _stays_ lifted all the way up until Keith finds three seconds to himself to check his phone, because that’s when he sees the text.

_come over_

It’s from Isaac. Forty minutes ago. And Keith can physically feel the good vibes drop around him as he reads it.

Should he even respond...? They’re technically still fighting, the last time Keith saw him being that great interaction and then getting abandoned on his couch.

Ugh.

**im at work**

He thumbs it in with a drawn out sigh, thankful for the equally annoying chorus of I Like Tuh blasting over the speakers above the stage, because it drowns his sigh out, which means Shiro can’t hear it and come investigate.

_i knowc one after_

Another sigh. Some squinting. Autocorrect has been here but Keith figures it out nonetheless.

**i get out at 2 and im tired**

Like hell he’s gonna drag his ass over to Isaac’s after working until two in the morning. Especially when they aren’t currently in the running for Most Perfect Couple.

But the text comes anyway, like he was hoping it wouldn’t, and the music continues on to add insult to injury.

_fine but dont bitch atme for not trying to fix things later_

Jesus. Keith can _feeeeel_ the full body groan that’s trying to work its way up from his chest. For real? He’s really going to pull the guilt trip card on him when he’s at work? And this late at night? God damn it.

I Like Tuh ends on a high note, blessedly, and the lights are brought up just enough that it doesn’t kill the atmosphere. Keith’s good-vibe-atmosphere, on the other hand - dead and buried.

**if i come over im sleeping there**

A quick glance up shows a woman approaching the bar, but Shiro’s on it before Keith can even think about putting his phone away.

_thats fine_

It’s passive aggressive in the way that only he knows Isaac can be. But he accepts it, shaking his head and stuffing his phone back into his jacket pocket where it lays over a chair in the back. The guilt trip worked. And honestly, at this point, Keith would rather they just get it over with instead of being dramatic for however many days. It’s their formula and he’s not up for playing it out this time.

The next wave of customers arrives just as Keith makes it back to his spot - an immediate swamp of orders that do nothing but add to the muck weighing down his mood. But he works. And he delivers. And he smiles but they’re not real smiles because he’s bitter that his endorphin high got cut off so drastically, only to return in the slightest trickle as Blue’s intro song fires up.

It’s not enough though, because as Keith’s rolling into double time to finish up orders in the minute-thirty-second clip (he’s figuring it out more and more), he can’t shake the disappointment that he won’t be able to hang out with Blue after work now. You know, if it was offered, that is. And not that anything magnificent would happen if they _did,_ because he _is_ still keeping his hands to himself. It’s just the thought. And it’s been drop-kicked out of possibility.

And Keith is very very bitter.

_-You’re worth it-_

_-You’re perfect-_

_-Deserve it-_

_-Just work it-_

It’s one of Blue’s hype songs where he does more dancing than actual stripping but Keith is surprisingly not all that interested, taking the second to appreciate his black cutoff tank and tight red pants before turning his attention to the row of freshly emptied glasses that were left for him to clean in the rush.

Great.

Awesome.

Shiro grabs a few and starts dumping out the leftover straws and garnish fruit into the garbage can near the back, taking the job because he knows it majorly grosses Keith out. It’s very thoughtful and Keith grabs the empty glasses - martini first - to load them into the super secret steam washer under the bar-top.

_-All my ladies-_

_-Put your hands up!-_

Keith glances up at the considerable swell of audience participation, Blue being Blue and hyping everyone up with what looks like about 3% effort and 97% personal enjoyment. It’s so very like him. And now Keith can’t help but watch him as he works, the huge, enthusiastic smile reaching his eyes - the eyes that are now flicking from one of the drunker girls to the back - to the bar - to Keith.

They lock onto him and Keith’s hands stall on a glass, brain tripping up before kicking his ass in gear and telling him to look away, the dip in his pulse way too intense for a little sudden eye contact.

He loads the last martini glass but can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. Closely. Very obviously. And all he has to do is glance back up, brows furrowed a bit because yep - yep Blue’s still looking at him - smiling at him, a little bit of a tease lurking behind it but still unshakable.

He keeps up with his routine without missing a beat, but suddenly, with Keith’s added attention, everything’s much looser, much more off the cuff, much more personal and almost silly and very obviously directed towards Keith. And Keith - his brain’s reeling - awkwardness first, then confusion, then a good amount of something that makes those endorphins pop off again because-...he’s doing it on purpose - Blue’s doing it on purpose, smile still tugging away.

The beat transforms into something heavier, slightly slower with a lot of space for Blue to draw out his moves and ham it up until they’ve become this hyper-personal set of movements that are thrown Keith’s way - thrown with the same purpose that his hand had outside when it slipped under Keith’s jacket to tickle at his side. It’s-...it’s _amusing._ It’s _funny._ And Keith can’t bring himself to do anything but stand and watch, arms crossed over his chest and a grin tugging at the side of his mouth.

Because it’s working. Oh boy, is it working. And Blue looks equally as amused, nose crinkling a bit as he smiles at Keith, hips working into some sort of ridiculous sway that has Keith giving in, grin spreading even and chest light with this airy feeling that makes him feel like maybe he doesn’t need to breathe.

It works and Keith smiles and it’s clear that that’s Blue’s end game, because he does a little fist pump and then ends out his song and Keith is left huffing a chuckle to himself, head shaking in disbelief as the song ends and Blue disappears again behind the curtain.

Keith doesn’t need to breathe with his chest this light, he thinks.

And he’s just going to ignore the look of calculated confusion that Shiro’s sporting next to him.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

“Can you drop me off at Isaac’s?”

The lines of passing street lamps wash across Shiro as he glances over at him from the driver’s side, tired but not letting it show. “Aren’t you guys fighting?”

Okay, so maybe Keith’s been shit at hiding their issues lately. “It’s fine.” They didn’t stay after work long enough for Keith to catch Lance before leaving. That might be a contributing factor to his attitude too.

The steering wheel turns slowly in Shiro’s hand, Keith’s shoulder pressing into the side of the car just a bit as they turn onto the main street. “I’ll drop you off, but I don’t like it."

“You don’t have to like it.”

“That’s good, because I don’t.”

“You don’t like _anything_ about Isaac,” he mumbles, although it’s hardly news to either of them. Shiro had been very nice in the beginning - very cordial for a protective older brother. But some things last longer than others.

“I’m not a huge fan of how he treats you,” Shiro clarifies. “You know that.” The car eases to a stop at a red light, a too-bright gas station sign illuminating them as they sit and wait. “Which is why I’m not crazy about dropping you off for the night when you’re fighting.”

The reasoning has merit, but Keith’s grown too impatient. “It’ll be fine. Promise.”

He doesn’t say it with enough confidence, but at this point he’d have to summon some sort of deity for the proper amount, so they both leave it at that. And they drive on until their car is pulling up to Isaac’s house, the street filled with more cars than usual for such a late hour.

Keith says his thanks and hops out before Shiro can offer to take him home instead, his boots clacking against the pavement and the car door slamming a bit too loudly. It wakes up the dogs across the street, but Keith is so used to their barking by now that he walks up the sidewalk without even turning.

The key Isaac gave him their first year out of college slides into the front door’s lock right as Keith’s ears fix on the noise coming from within. Laughter. Loud laughter. From more than one person.

“Keith,” Isaac’s the first to speak when Keith finally summons up the patience to push through the door. Only his tone isn’t angry. No, judging by the number of empty beer bottles on the table in front of the couches, Keith doesn’t really have to guess why his voice is so slurred.

“Didn’t know you had people over,” he offers back, tone clipped as he unenthusiastically takes in the three other faces sitting on the opposite couch. There’s Kyle - a mutual friend from art school that Keith doesn’t have any glaring issues with. And Marc, unfortunately - one of Keith’s least favorite people from college, and also the entire world while he’s at it. And he’s sitting next to another guy - a guy Keith doesn’t even know and doesn’t care to know because: “I’m just gonna go to sleep.”

“No stay,” Isaac insists from his spot on the shorter couch.

But Keith’s - “I’m really tir-”

“Stay, c’mon.”

“Yeah man, don’t be such a pussy.”

Keith directs his glare at Marc, about sixteen different issues he could tackle on that one statement alone. But he’s tired. And his endorphin-high is gone again. And he just-

“Babe, jus-one drink.” Isaac’s slurring up a storm, which makes sense given that it’s now 2:30 in the morning and they’ve have ample time to destroy a 24-pack.

Keith sighs, weighing the pros and cons of the situation, and then shrugs out of his jacket, “Fine,” choosing the path of least resistance.

He drapes it over the door’s handle before he can stop himself - before he can think for one goddamn second about where he is and who he’s with - but it’s too late. He’s jacketless.

“Jesus, Isaac, you sure he’s not the one doing the stripping?” Marc laughs but it’s not good-natured. It’s sharp and insulting and Keith rolls his eyes.

“I’m standing right here,” he snaps, fighting down the very real urge to cross his arms over his bare middle because he will _not_ let Marc know he got to him - he _refuses._

“Yeah shut the fuck up man,” Isaac mumbles in his defense, not surprising, but it isn’t with enough conviction that it cuts out the jeering and that pisses Keith off even more.

Especially when the guy he doesn’t even _know_ chuckles a supportive, “Good one.”

“ _Who_ are you?” Keith finds himself being dragged back down into bitchy mode. And bitchy mode is not a mode he likes to be in.

Isaac must sense it after dealing with it for three years because he reaches a hand out. “Babe. Ignore ‘em, babe. Everyone leave ‘im alone.”

It’s enough this time, surprisingly. And there’s only a beat of weird silence until Kyle starts up a conversation about a printmaking class they’d all been in together. All of them except for that fucking no-namer. Who _is_ that.

“Babe.”

Keith glances down, realizing he’s still fuming but willing himself to calm down. He huffs and collapses onto the couch - or more like, his feet are stretched out on the couch, knees bent, but his ass is in Isaac’s lap and his back is against the couch’s arm, because that’s how they sit when they drink and he kind of does it without thinking. Because they’re still fighting, aren’t they?

“Here.”

The beer’s half drunk, but Keith takes it anyway, bringing it to his mouth with the intention of just a sip, but draining the rest in one go because he’s _tired_ and he’s _upset_ and he doesn’t really like beer all that much but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all. He drains the whole thing and lets Isaac take it away from him and lets Isaac smooth his hand against his calf and lets Isaac mumble shit that he doesn’t even understand because it means the beers keep coming. Compliments of Kyle, who is always on the lookout for dries.

And even if Keith doesn’t like beer all that much - the taste or the heaviness of it or the fact that he’s convinced it makes him bloated - he drinks it. And he lets Isaac touch him. And he has his memory go back to a couple hours before, when he had been outside, looking up at the moon with Lance. And an hour after that, when he had been so fucking bitter, about so many fucking things, and Lance had somehow seen it from his spot on stage and fucked around with his routine and used it to make Keith feel better. He lets himself think about the stupid little grin that he couldn’t help, Lance feeding off of it. And he drinks.

And he drinks.

And he drinks until he’s got a good buzz and he doesn’t mind the way Isaac’s hand flattens from his calf all the way up to the back of his thigh. He doesn’t mind the way their foreheads dip together, Isaac still saying things he doesn’t 100% understand, but he’s saying them lowly and intimately and Keith can’t find it in himself to care that they’re making out on the couch while everyone else talks on the other because this definitely isn’t the first time - certainly isn’t the tenth time.

He’s buzzed and he’s tired and they haven’t even fixed anything. But Isaac’s _drunk_ and he’s wired and he’s moving - shifting - plucking Keith up with him without warning and carrying him before Keith can get his wits about him. When he does, everything’s moving - the walls, the ceiling, his entire body as Isaac carries him through the hallway to the back of the house and into his bedroom.

“Whoa wait-” Keith grumbles, but it’s cut off by the slam of the door as Isaac kicks his foot back to shut it. And Keith may be buzzed but he knows what the fuck is going on. “Babe what the f-”

His back bounces off the shitty mattress below him, neck twisting an uncomfortable way as he tenses, hands fisting and then pushing because-

“Get off-” there’re _people_ here. There’re people here a couple rooms away and the two of them just left, but Isaac’s acting like it’s not a big deal with the way he grabs at the waistband of Keith’s leggings, “St-” not gentle enough to avoid ripping.

Keith pushes against it, trying to keep himself from slipping into panic mode over something so stupid but Isaac’s kissing him - is fucking _gone_ \- and Keith just needs to _get_ to him-

“Isaac!” but he can’t be too loud because- “Isaac st-mmf!”  

Because making out is one thing. Making out is one thing but getting busy when you have people over in your house and they can hear you is just-

Keith rolls his body in a heavy attempt, working his hips to the side enough that he can slip his legs out from under where they’re unintentionally trapped, and then he’s hitting the floor - he’s on his hands and his knees and he’s forcing himself up, straightening his leggings and his hair and Isaac groans from the bed, “Keith,” but Keith is _moving._ Keith is _booking_ it, making sure to hold his head as high as possible as he stalks back through the living room, blocking out the chorus of “Ohhhh”s and “Uh oh”s and he grabs his jacket and his boots and pushes his way through the door, not stopping until he’s on the sidewalk, bare feet slapping against the pavement.

The breeze is what pulls him back to an okay place first. The cool air. The open space of it. He just needs to breathe it in for a minute. Get his pulse back.

He lets his eyes roam the sky. The moon is still hanging there. Where it should be.

Breathe.

He's done this before and he can do it again.

He needs a ride.

He should call Shiro. He could call him and Shiro would be out here at the drop of a hat for him, no questions asked. But… That’d just be _one_ more thing against Isaac. And even if he’d have the consideration to not let it show, his brother would definitely not forget it. So no. Keith’s not going to call him. And he’s not going to call Pidge because Pidge doesn’t have a car.

So.

The brightness of his phone screen is annoyingly harsh as he flicks open the private messaging option in Snapchat.

**you still up?**

He could always get a Lyft too. But that’s money and that’s Keith getting into a random person’s car while buzzed. Last resort, then.

_Snapchat_   
_from hahathenwhat_

Keith swipes open the little blue message notification, dropping his boots into the grass and settling to sit against the curb.

_yepyep whats up mami_

He drapes his jacket over his shoulders, crouching over to type.

**i’ll owe you one if you come give me a ride**

Send.

Keith squints in the dark as he rereads. Maybe he could’ve phrased that better.

_is this a booty call~_

Yeah, he definitely could’ve phrased that better.

**no im literally on the side of the road and need a ride**

_address pls_ is Lance’s response, then a quick _ps i was joking bout the booty call_

Keith doesn’t know why, but that makes him breathe out a chuckle. For some reason. Like, there’s not a single funny element to his messages but he’s still chuckling shortly at it. Must be the buzz.

He sends him the address to the house four doors down from Isaac, another thing he’s not quite sure why he does, but does nonetheless. And when Lance hits him back with a quick _omw_ , he tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket and sets out to make sure he doesn’t look like complete garbage by the time he’s picked up.

The leaves dance softly on their branches as the breeze sifts through, Keith’s bangs falling in his eyes when he grabs a boot from where they’re still lying in the grass. He slips his foot in and starts with the laces. First the right foot. Then the left. The lining of his leggings’ waistband is torn, the fabric drooping at his hip where it had been pulled. He tucks it in. Gives it a try. Ends up rolling the entire band down and over itself a couple times until it’s less obvious. It exposes more of his hips bone but it’s a small price to pay to avoid questions.

And then he zones. For some weird, out of body amount of time that should probably be concerning but isn’t anymore. Because it’s nice to not have to deal sometimes. Like now.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for someone who now owes me a life debt?” The sudden voice has Keith glancing back up to the car that has pulled up in front of him, the familiar face a relief as it leans toward the open passenger side window. “Dark hair. Gloves. Teeny tiny. You seen him?”

Keith blinks slowly at him, _these_ kinds of insults way more tolerable than the ones that were thrown at him a little bit ago. “M’not teeny tiny.”

“The tiniest, actually.”

Lance grins but it’s soft. Welcoming. Keith is drawn to it without another word, legs lifting him from his place on the curb and pulling him into the car. The seat is a lot more comfortable than concrete. That’s for sure.

“So. Takin’ you home? To your place, I mean?”

The thought of it should sound appealing - his own bed - a shower maybe, even - but instead, it just pumps this insane amount of dread into his chest. “Mm-mm.”

“No?”

“I don’t wanna go home…” He whines it - slurs it - even he can tell, and he’s not the one with the calculating eyes.

“‘Kay, so where _do_ you wanna go?” He’s in dark sweatpants. And a soft t-shirt. And there’s no realistic reason why he should look as hot as he does, but he _does._ “Gloves?”

“Mm?”

“Where am I taking you?” he chuckles. “Also what were you drinking? This is a new experience for me.”

“Shitty beer,” he answers, and he feels gross just talking about it - how is that possible. “And I don’t-...doesn’t matter, just…”

He wonders if that shirt is as soft as it looks.

Lance chuckles through his nose, “I’m just gonna start driving. Seat belt, please.”

“What?”

“Put your seat belt on.”

Oh. Keith reaches behind himself and pulls the belt over, the metal part clacking against the holder as he tries to stuff it in himself. It’s easier said than done, though. No two seat belts are alike, and he’s never had to master this one.

He only has to struggle for a second, though, because then Lance is coming to his aid, fingers brushing against Keith’s knuckles as he helps secure it in place. “Oh my god, dude. How much did you drink?”

“Not even that much,” Keith groans. And he’s not sure if he’s more embarrassed about the seat belt or the general fact that he’s probably losing a shit ton of cool points at the moment. “M’usually fine.”

The car has started moving.

It occurs to Keith that he’s never actually been in this car while it’s moving before.

“So should I ask or leave it alone?”

He doesn’t have to explain his meaning for Keith to get it. And to have an option that involves not sharing the details of his last encounter with Isaac is refreshingly appreciated. “Leave it alone.”

Lance nods, “You got it,” and speeds up to slip through the tail end of a yellow light. “I _think_ I remember where you live - tell me if I miss the t-”

“Blue,” Keith whines again, head tipping back against the headrest, “don’t take me home.”

“Not to be a bummer but it’s probably a go-”

“Bluuuue-”

“Six’ll have my ass if he finds out I kept you out, okay?” Lance pushes, but it’s through a playful tone, “And I like my ass. I need it for my job.”

Keith supposes that makes sense. “I like your ass too,” he says, mind swimming enough that it misses the way Lance pauses a little, mouth open but not speaking until he presses out an amused huff.

“Yeah, I’m _definitely_ taking you home.”

“Lame.”

“You’re gonna thank me later.”

“Doubt it.”

“What were you saying earlier tonight? About checking yourself?”

Keith’s own words spiral back into his head at Lance’s lighthearted reminder. Oh yeah. He _did_ say that.

“Consider this me checking yourself for you. While you’re otherwise incapacitated.”

“M’not incapacitated.”

“Oh you’re incapacitated alright.”

“So what... _you’re_ gonna keep me in check?” Keith doesn’t know where this playfully confrontational side of himself came from, but it’s preferable after a night of roller coaster emotions. “Everything I do?”

Lance raises an eyebrow but keeps his eyes on the road. “I mean, that’s not supposed to be a challenge. You’re making it sound like a challenge when you’re the one who said it in the first place.”

He did, didn’t he?

“Sober-mami wouldn’t take it as a challenge.”

Keith scoffs, “Sober-mami isn’t fun.”

“Sober-mami is _hella_ fun and I would fight anyone who says otherwise.”

The car eases to a stop at that, Keith’s apartment building in plain view where it hadn’t been before.

“You have arrived at your destination,” Lance declares.

But Keith is in a mood™ now. “Mm-mm.”

“Yeah, we definitely have,” he laughs, then ducks his head to double-check the face of the apartment, “At least I think we have. This is it, right?”

“Nope.”

“Pretty sure it is.”

“You were high last time you dropped me off.”

Lance lets his eyebrows raise as he tilts his head over to him. “Wasn’t _that_ high.” And when Keith doesn’t budge, he rolls his eyes in mock annoyance and hoists himself out of the car, “Alright alright. I see what this is.”

Keith unclips his seat belt - much easier than the other way around - and steps out too when his door is opened for him.

The door into the building isn’t sticky tonight, which is helpful because it means Keith doesn’t have to struggle like an idiot this particular time. He also doesn’t have to struggle up the stairs because his and Shiro’s apartment is on the ground floor. So the only real struggling involved here is getting Lance into said apartment, the boy in question peeking his head in instead of actually following him.

But Keith doesn’t push it too much, figuring if Lance _really_ doesn’t want to come in, he won’t. “Thanks for picking me up,” he says lowly, voice quiet so it doesn’t travel very far in the small apartment.

The door closes, Lance finally inside.

Keith shrugs out of his jacket for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, and if he was facing the right direction and a little less buzzed, he might’ve caught how Lance’s eyes fall on him - down his spine, the curve of his ass, back up again and darting away just in time for Keith to turn.

“Yeah, no problem.”

“I owe you.”

“Nah, it’s cool.”

“You sure?”

Keith is watching him now, standing quietly in the middle of the kitchen, arms raised above his head to tighten his ponytail.

Lance’s mouth quirks up in a half-grin. “I’m sure.”

Keith turns then, satisfied but not satisfied and he’s not exactly sure why - will wish later on that he could’ve been appreciating the fact that Blue is standing in his apartment at four in the morning. But now is not later and now is when he realizes that he’s been thirsty for about an hour, that stupid beer dehydrating him like he knew it would.

The cabinet squeaks on its hinges as he pulls it open, Lance no doubt wincing behind him because apparently he _very much_ doesn’t want Shiro knowing he’s here. And speaking of Shiro, that motherfucker put the glasses on the top shelf again. Must’ve done the dishes and not thought about it, because he _knows_ Keith can’t reach the top shelf.

But Keith is nothing if not persistent. And he stands on his tiptoes, stretching his entire body as long as possible, fingers just barely gracing the edge of one of the glasses, the night’s true struggle making itself clear as he props himself against the counter with his other hand.

“Teeny tiny,” he hears from behind him - _directly_ behind him - and then Lance is hovering over him, heat spreading from where his hand braces itself against the bare skin of Keith’s waist. His hips press into him but only for a split second, because then he’s grabbing the glass from where Keith can’t reach and Keith’s turning in his hold to face him, the hand dragging over the small of his back from the movement of it and then settling on the other hip.

“I’m not tiny,” he insists, although it’s lost a lot of its heat with the way his voice peters out at the end, both of them realizing how quickly the space between them has vanished.

Lance blinks. The glass echoes off the counter as he sets it down behind Keith and pulls his hand away, tensing it a bit as if it has a mind of its own.

But Keith likes the feeling - _wants_ the feeling - catches Lance’s hands before he can pull away for good and brings them back onto his waist - both this time, their warmth sliding up his sides a bit from Keith’s encouragement and already dangerously enjoyable. Skin on skin. Smooth.  

But: “ _That,”_ Lance states slowly, taking a step back and bringing his hands with him, “is what I’m talking about with the whole challenge thing,” although there’s amusement lurking behind his words. Keith can hear it. They both can. And Lance is trying not to smile as he takes another step backward towards the door. “So here,” he says, “I’m checking you. See you tomorrow.”

Keith watches him. Watches it all unfold before him like a game. And when Lance finally opens the door, he tilts his head a bit, smirk unable to be fought down. “See ya.”

 

* * *

 

 

Okay so Keith’s pretty stupid. He realizes that. But everybody gets one slip-up and that was his. So he’s safe and no one has to bring attention to it ever again, thank you.

 

* * *

 

The thing with Isaac doesn’t even really get _fixed,_ per se. They just kind of leave it alone for long enough that they eventually forget about it. Keith is fine with it because it means they don’t have to talk about it until it’ll probably come up again a few weeks from now. He’s _not_ fine with it because technically it means he could’ve never gone over to Isaac’s the night everyone was drinking. But he’s fine with it also because if he never went over to Isaac’s, he never would’ve needed to be picked up, and he never would’ve spent that time with Lance, and he never would’ve experienced the super interesting feeling of Lance pressing up against him for a second time - the dude apparently unable to help Keith in any situation at all without physically getting up in his business.

But Keith’s fine with that too, though - Lance physically getting up in his business. He’s more than fine with it. Which is why he skips out on three straight breaks with Blue. Because he’s more than fine with it and _wants_ it but he can’t so he doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

“Break up with Isaac,” Pidge deadpans at him when he goes over Sunday afternoon.

Keith refuses - “No.” - and gets his ass handed to him by a blue shell, rolling in dead last yet again.

 

* * *

 

Monday happens. Then Tuesday happens, and Keith is tired but relieved because Sydney is finally fucking here, her mom dropping her off and explaining to the site director that things have been a little rocky at school and that’s why she hasn’t been coming.

 _Keith_ knows Sydney’s here because he’s broadsided by her with zero warning, her arms wrapping around his sides as he lifts his arms to look down and see which child is clinging to him at this exact moment. But he knows it’s Sydney because he hears the, “Mr. T!” that she starting calling him in kindergarten and won’t be corrected on to this day. (“Mr. Keith” with kindergarten linguistics → Mr. T) And maybe he’s gotten too attached, but the fact that she’s finally here brightens his day so fucking much that he may or may not end up ignoring a good portion of the other kids to catch up with her.

“What’d you do this summer?” he asks, sitting cross-legged across from her on the carpet in the corner.

Her long hair is braided differently this year. One of her front teeth is missing. “Saw Beyoncé,” she says with a giggle.

And Keith has spent enough time with her to connect her Beyoncé obsession with her tendency to make things up, so he nods, feigning awe. “Wow, really?”

“Yeah, she’s pregnant.”

“She _is_ pregnant.”

“She’s havin’ twins!”

“That’s crazy,” he humors her, hands out in excitement and returning the high fives when she slaps her hands down onto them. “What’d you do with your family?”

“California.”

“You went to California with your family?”

“I went to California with my family,” she echoes, smiling wide and slipping back into the structured echo-response that has Keith blessing himself with how fully she retained it over the summer. “We saw dolphins.”

“Did you swim with them?”

“Uh huh. We touched ‘em.”

“That’s really cool. I wish I got to do that.”

Sydney giggles, her body squirming a bit as she reasons, “Mr. T can’t swim.”

“What? I can totally swim!” he frowns with fake outrage, his open mouth turning to a grin when she giggles again. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Beyoncé!”

“I don’t even know Beyoncé!”

Sydney collapses onto the carpet in a fit of more giggles, the sound of it a surprising release of those endorphins again.

Keith smiles - glances up to where Pidge is watching fondly from across the room - returns his attention to where his favorite kid has now spread herself out like a starfish on the ground. “Hey Sydney? ...Syd.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re back.”

She giggles some more.

 

* * *

 

 The good mood stays with him all the way to stocking around six, Blue’s pole routine taking a back seat to random conversation. He sits on the edge of the stage, watching as Keith counts bottles and writes down numbers and does so like the world is not ending for once, something Lance notices right away.

“You’re in a good mood.”

Keith doesn’t even deny it. “Good day.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Yeah,” four bottles of raspberry Absolut, “good afterschool session.”

They need more whipped cream again. “What’s that?”

“Afterschool?”

“Yeah.”

Keith pauses. Oh yeah. They know pretty much _nothing_ about each other. He forgot. “I volunteer at a program for kids after school lets out. Help them with their homework - that kinda shit.”

Lance nods, like the connection has finally formed. “Oh, _afterschool.”_

Keith shoots him a silly smile. “Yeah.”

“That’s cool. Didn’t know you do that.”

Five bottles of lemon Absolut. “Yeah, I know literally nothing about you either so.”

“That’s not true,” Lance is hopping down when Keith looks up. “You know my favorite color.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

“And you know how old I am.”

“No I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

There’s surprise there, which Keith has no idea why it would be. “No. Like I said, I know nothing about you.”

He turns again, the end of his pen tapping at the glass bottles as he counts a row. Three, four, five. Five bottles of lemon Absolut. Wait, he already counted those.

“25.”

“What?”

Lance is leaning against the bar-top when Keith looks over his shoulder. “I’m 25.”

“Oh.” Why didn’t he just write the lemon ones down the first time…

“You’re…?”

Keith jots it down. “I’m what.”

“How old are you?”

“24.”

“A young sprout.”

Keith sighs, the clipboard hitting off his thighs as he gives him a look. “You’re distracting, you know that?”

“You tried a Blue Rider?”

“A-..oh, your drink?”

“Mhm.”

“No.” Maybe he’ll just finish counting later. “No, I have not tried a Blue Rider.”

“You’ve insulted me.”

“I don’t like champagne.”

“You’ll like _this.”_

Keith simply blinks slowly at him, unswayed.

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Are you practicing at all tonight or are you just here to distract me?”

Lance hums, clearly pleased with himself and leaning his chin against his palm. “Want me to leave?”

“No.”

“No because you enjoy being distracted?”

“Oh my god, do you ever stop?” Keith hits back lightly, slapping the clipboard down in front of Lance. “You’re just like the kids.”

“I’ll just leave then…”

“Good.” It’s a joke but the more silence that follows it, the more Keith is worried it didn’t translate. Because he’s not _actually_ an asshole. He’s just an asshole to people to express his fondness. He goes for a redirection. “You're super chatty today.”

Lance leans his weight on the other leg, “Well I gotta use my time wisely,” tone even, “since you've been avoiding me.”

It’s a guilt trip without really being a guilt trip - a guilt trip that doesn’t flood Keith’s chest with utter dread like Isaac’s guilt trips do. Even if Keith _does_ feel a little bad, because yes, he’s definitely been keeping his distance from Lance lately. Still though. “I’m not avoiding you.”

But Lance waves his lie away. “Nah it’s cool. I get it, man.” And the bothersome part about it is he _does_ get it. Like, for real. Because Keith was stupid enough to pull that shit the other night - with the ride and the glass and the way he encouraged Lance’s hands on him. So it’s probably no mystery to Lance why he’d be keeping to himself. “Feels like forever since we’ve smoked though…” he mumbles, just on the edge of too quiet.

And Keith doesn’t know if he was supposed to hear that or not, but he says it anyway, on the end of a thoughtful sigh, “For real…”

It lingers. And lingers. And when the silence becomes too stretched out, Keith peeks up to see that he’s already being looked at, a small playful smile dancing across Lance’s face from across the bar-top.

It’s tempting.

Astronomically tempting.

The hit in Keith’s resolve is huge and immediate. “It _has_  been like...two weeks.”

“Mhm,” his smile is growing.

“That’s a long time.”

“Mhmmm…”

They shouldn’t. “I shouldn’t.”

“But?”

Keith sighs. “ _But…_ ”

‘But’ he wants to. ‘But’ he’s thought about it more than once over this stretch of time. ‘But’ if he just keeps his cool and checks himself everything should be fine.

With the aid of Lance’s smirk and inviting gaze, Keith’s resolve takes one final blow.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

It _has_ been two weeks. Keith didn’t want to admit it back there but he’s been unintentionally keeping track. So when it hits his lungs - the strawberry and the smoke and the heat - in warms them from the inside out and Keith slides down against the inside of the car. It’s his lungs and then his brain, where the haze hits - where it settles over him and lulls him out of his discomfort and into a nice, content, airy lift.

The k-hop that Lance puts on is low enough that they can talk with ease, and the bass is _just_ prominent enough that it registers lowly in Keith’s chest without bringing attention to itself. He grins, the leg nearest to the back of the seat bending at the knee to mirror Lance’s, his other foot planted firmly on the floor.

Things are very chill.

They are in their element.

Keith is struggling, but in a nice, gentle way.

It’s a gentle struggle because he gets to do it from the comfort of his own space - gets to watch the smoke billow slowly, white and full, from Lance’s parted lips - billow up and drift back in through his nose in a smooth, mystifying flow. He gets to watch it through heavy eyelids. Wet his bottom lip. Watch and watch.

Lance must not mind because he does it with such grace. Frees the rest. Turns the joint in his fingers and leans over to give it to Keith.

Then more smoke. Keith’s not as good but he’s not really trying because he just wants to get it back over there. Back to Lance. Just wants to take his hit and get back to watching.

Lance’s cheeks hollow when he takes a drag, eyes low. It accentuates his cheekbones. His jawline. Smooth, pretty skin. He blinks slowly. Lets them close and tilts his head back against the window. Purses his lips to blow the stream out towards the roof of the car. Exposed neck. Pretty throat.

Keith wets his lips again, and makes the connection between the buzz against his thigh and the vibration of his phone.

His and Isaac’s faces stare back at him. Smiling. A picture they took in college.

He slides his phone back into his pocket, still vibrating.

“Harsh,” Lance mutters. His voice is scratchy. They’ve been at it for a while now.

Keith tells himself it’s not attractive. “Boyfriend.”

“Even harsher.”

He’s zoning. In a good way. “Don’t wanna talk to people right now.”

Lance nods, then brings his free hand up to mimic a zipper across his lips.

Keith grins lazily. “Not you.”

“I’m people.”

“You’re not people.” He tilts his head, comfortably watching. Comfortably thinking. Jesus, this guy is something else altogether. “Better than people...”

A sluggish smile works its way across Lance’s lips. Soft. He doesn’t say anything. Keith wonders vaguely if he’s gone too far. Or not far enough.

“Sucks...”

Lance takes a short hit, chest barely moving. “What.”

And Keith is so pleasantly airy that he finds no issue saying it. “I’m just…” he watches - smoke plume - inviting lips, “physically attracted…” heavy eyelids, “...to you…” it’s all let out and climbing to the ceiling but Keith is looking at him instead, “...a lot…”

It disappears in thin air and then it’s just them. And words. And the glowing bud of their second joint.

Lance is looking at him, expression hazy in Keith’s brain.

“Me too,” he says. “So yeah... Does suck...”

It hovers over Keith’s brain. There but not sinking in. He hears it but doesn’t _hear_ it. Surface level. “Shotgun me,” he breathes out, eyes landing on the joint.

Lance doesn’t move. “Bad idea.”

“I don’t care.”

“Gonna turn b-”

“I don’t _care.”_ He feels it. Means it. Can’t fucking stand the situation at this point in time. Can’t fucking stand Isaac. Can’t fucking stand that it’s taking so long to realize why he doesn’t want to end things. He swallows. Steadies himself. “I don’t care.”

Lance is gorgeous. And fun. And holding Keith’s gaze until he must realize he’s not gonna be able to check him out of this one.

He takes a pull, the tip crackling and flaring just a bit and Keith can smell it as he shifts, as he moves forward while Lance does. Their knees knock together. The joint drops away. Keith surrounds himself in the pull of the haze and his heavy pulse and the feeling of Lance’s thumb gently drawing his lips apart.

Then warmth. Warm smoke. Warm breath. Keith lets his eyes fall shut and breathes it in and his hands find Lance’s thighs - rest there - firm muscle under sleek track pants. He breathes it in and out again, jaw tensing. And they should pull back. They should lean away and move on because it’s the right thing to do. But Keith doesn’t want to. And Lance is gorgeous. And Keith tilts his head a bit to softly catch Lance’s bottom lip between his teeth, Lance straightening a touch from the sensation of it.

Keith pulls. Just a little. Just enough to get Lance’s breath hitching in the back of his throat. It’s the kind of bad idea that stacks on top of another, and another, until it’s compounded into the very thing that’s trying to be avoided - until it’s turned into Lance’s hand on the side of his neck - on his throat - on his chest and he’s reaching behind himself without looking, tapping the end of the joint out until one hand becomes two. Until a teasing nibble becomes more - _compounds itself_ \- and Keith is sighing through his nose, lips moving hungrily against Lance’s.

He touches where he can. Lance’s chest. His shoulders. The car rocks on its wheels as he moves forward, easily climbs his way into Lance’s lap because Lance makes room for him before Keith even realizes he wants to move there. But now he’s there. He’s here. And he’s sliding his tongue over where Lance licks effortlessly past his lips. And it’s so fucking good - Keith forgot _how_ good, in his attempts to keep himself straight.

Lance’s hands find his waist - slide up his spine, hiking his shirt up on accident right as the vibration hits again. It tingles against his thigh and it forces things to a stop, their mouths dropping away but still open, still taking in air, chests heaving as Keith’s phone cuts through the moment.

“Lemme guess,” Lance breathes out, voice gone low.

And when Keith finally drags his phone out of his pocket, it’s no surprise who the caller is.

Isaac’s face and his own. They light up the now dark interior of the car.

Keith flicks his eyes from them up to Lance, breath heavy.

And Lance just stares back, lips parted and eyes steady.

Patient.

Gorgeous.

Keith tosses his phone onto the seat behind him, and then swoops back in to slot their mouths together. They pick back up like they never stopped - like they were never interrupted in the first place - to the consistent rhythm of Keith’s phone buzzing a few inches away.

 

* * *

 

This is the turning point.

This is where things compound.

And compound.

And compound.

 

* * *

 


	4. All or Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING:  
> -themes of emotional abuse throughout  
> -a brief scene of minor physical abuse at the very end. hmu if you'd like to skip past it and i'll catch you up in a safe way. ((i'd also like to take this time to apologize if these themes have made anyone uncomfortable. i didn't realize how much i needed writing something similar as a coping device for my past issues. so again, sorry and please let me know if you'd like me to catch you up!))

The first time Keith and Isaac had gone out on an actual date they took the motorcycle. Isaac let him have the helmet and teased him about his hair and Keith melted right into his back as they drove, as far away from campus as they could, until buildings gave way to nothing except flat land - grass - a clear night above them and around them and below them.

Neither of them believed it was a date but they touched like it was - pulled over on the side of the road to talk like it was. Keith tugged the helmet off and fixed his messy hair and Isaac kissed him so hard that the ground pulled out from under him and he fell into the stars. The clear night.

He falls a lot now but not for the same reason.

Things don’t stay clear forever.

 

* * *

 

When Wednesday rolls around, Keith gets a call from Allura, Shiro perking up a bit in the background as his brother answers his phone.

“You want me to what?”

_“Social media obviously plays a large role in marketing these days. It only makes sense to check up on Lady A’s reputation on these platforms, doesn’t it?”_

Allura has a way of explaining things so thoroughly that Keith ends up getting lost. It’s not her fault. He’s not even sure if it’s _his_ fault. But it leaves him running everything by her several times before finally coming to the conclusion she had in mind in the first place.

“So,” he starts, “you want me to spy on Lady A content on Twitter and stuff?” It sounds weird, which is why he’s double checking.

Space Jam hops up onto the couch’s arm without a sound, her back arching as Keith runs his hand over her. _“Yes, whenever you have the time. You’re the last to be hired and therefore have less of a bias than some of the other staff.”_

Keith doesn’t get it. But. “Uh, okay. Yeah, I can do that.”

_“Wonderful, thank you Keith!”_

“No problem.”

The line goes dead. Keith checks his phone’s screen with a little frown and then tosses it on the couch when he realizes it’s over.

And Shiro is doing kind of a bad job hiding his curiosity. “What’d she want?”

Space Jam saunters from Keith’s grasp, leaving him patting at empty air. Okay then. “I’m her social media spy, I guess.”

Shiro frowns. “Her what?”

“Does the club have an Instagram?”

The screen of his laptop hums back on as he pulls it into his lap, fingers already typing away into the search bar.

Shiro saunters over - catches Space Jam before she can escape and carries her against him in one arm. “Yeah but it’s pretty dead.”

“Who runs it?”

“I’m not sure.” She struggles for a moment and then gives in, rubbing her face shortly against Shiro’s chest. “It’s pretty much just specials advertising every now and then.”

The results that pop up support this, Keith only needing to scroll once to reach the end of the account’s uploaded pictures. “No one’s in them.”

“How’re you gonna do that when it’s a strip club?”

Keith nods. That makes sense. “They’d have a lot more followers if there were pictures of you, though.”

Shiro chuckles, “You think?” but it’s dry - self deprecating. Space Jam’s tail twitches.

“Okay, so Instagram sucks,” Keith notes to himself, clicking to a new tab as Shiro’s presence moves out from behind him. “How ‘bout Twitter?”

He’s left to his work, his brother instead seizing the opportunity to find the cat’s brush while she’s showing him affection. It’s not going to work, but Keith doesn’t comment. If anything he’ll get a good Snap or two out of it.

Twitter is better than Instagram. There are real life people actually @-ing the club and commenting on the drinks and dancers etc. Most of them are drunk tweets, Keith’s not surprised, but almost all of them are positive and that’s good because opinions are always more truthful after a few drinks, aren’t they?

So Twitter’s good.

Time for Tumblr.

“Quit it. Space- quit it, let me brush you.” It’s not going well over on the other side of the room.

Keith pulls his phone out, ever the opportunist, and catches a pic right as Space Jam decides it’s time to go hog wild, her fur sticking up and claws out and the Snap is truly a masterpiece - an elegant upwards blur of black and Shiro with his hands up, one still grasping the brush, the other shielding his face.

 _rekt_ , Keith adds to the picture and then fires it off to Pidge and Lance before turning back to his laptop.

He’s more familiar with Tumblr. Probably way too familiar, if he’s being honest. But where else was he going to get his punk band content at the spritely age of 13?

_Snapchat_   
_from denim-denim-denim_

Pidge has hit him back with a black screen, the Game Over sticker, and the message _player two has been eliminated_

Keith smiles, chuckling lowly as he turns his attention back to Tumblr. He types the club’s name into the search bar and scans through the tag page. So, no Lady A blog, huh? He can’t say he’s surprised. What he _is_ surprised about though, is the massive amount of text posts that pop up.

_“so i just got back from a club in my town and wow let me tell you theres a boy there and i think im in love”_

That’s the first one. It’s got three notes. All likes, no reblogs.

Keith keeps scrolling.

_“tfw ur out for a girls night and the hottest guy youve ever seen in your life makes repeated eye contact with you”_

Ten likes. No reblogs.

Keith’s brows furrow in concentration. There’s definitely a theme here…

The next post is a series of reblogs.

_“ok but my region people are we not gonna talk about The Boy at lady a’s?”_

_“The Boy omg pls”_

_“Are you talking about blue rider op?”_

_“shes talkin bout blue. we should all be talkin bout blue.”_

No way. Keith rereads it three times. And then another time. And then scrolls down until he finds a more popular post, his interest good and fully piqued.

_“So @awshit and I went again tonight and let me tell you. Blue is something else. Idk how he can make kpop so sexy but loooord. If you’ve seen him you know. If you haven’t seen him, you need to. If you’re in the area and you’re not front row for this boy’s Mommae routine then you’re missing out oml.”_

It’s got 334 likes. Which is a lot for a city-specific location and person, right? But with the way this tag is going so far, it’s no surprise that Blue is everyone’s favorite.

Keith leans in, almost desperate now.

_“blue is the hottest guy on this planet and if he ever decided he needed a little REAL korean in his life i would be on that li-”_

_Snapchat_   
_from hahathenwhat_

Keith startles. For real. Like, his shoulders actually tense a little bit and he scrambles like he’s been caught. Like he’s looking at something he’s not supposed to be looking at.

Jesus, he needs to get it together.

 _mewtews clearly the better cat_ Lance has typed out, the text sitting below the shot of the gray-striped cat, curled nicely on the floor next to an open notebook with messy handwriting.

It’s the polar opposite of the image that the Tumblr posts have been feeding into Keith’s head. But who can blame those people? Blue is definitely everything they’re saying he is. And holy shit if Keith isn’t right in the same boat as them. (He’s the captain though. He’s definitely the one leading it.)

He closes out the tab and takes a breath, eyes shutting for a moment as he gathers himself.

“Will you please brush this animal…”

Shiro’s sitting in defeat when Keith glances over to him, his hair drooping and a series of red scratches left on his arms.

And how can Keith deny such a pitiful request?

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s Guys Night.

Keith accidentally breaks a shot glass, which confuses him because the glass is so thick, so how did he manage to break it? His question goes unanswered because Shiro is more concerned with the drink that’s been left on the counter - the full scotch and soda that he realizes belongs to “the guy waiting in the room reserved for private dances, can you please go give it to him while I finish this other person’s order?”

Keith agrees with little complaining, actually excited to get out from behind the bar for once. They’ll bring people’s drinks out to them on slow nights, but they haven’t had one of those for a while. So Keith’s taking the opportunity to roam as it’s presented to him.

The private room is in a sectioned off area behind a door - has it’s own hallway and fancy burgundy carpet and all the mood setters that one would expect while getting a private dance. Keith makes his way down the hall, drink in hand, and pushes past the dark purple curtain at the end and into the room before he can realize that the music isn’t leftover from the main club - that it’s actually coming from in here - the private dance has started - and Keith has just walked right into it from behind.

He pauses, ready to turn back around and fuck off when his eyes catch the movement in front of him...the broad, tan, bare shoulders that ease down into a tight waist - the hips that sway, slow and sultry and dangerously smooth just a breath away from the customer’s lap where he’s sitting.

And the deep music hits, Keith not recognizing the melody but definitely recognizing the language.

He just walked in on Blue’s private dance.

He stalls, heart racing and body refusing to move when his eyes are so busy taking in the lean muscles of his back...the hyper-sexual roll of his hips...the tight black shorts that cover _just_ below the tempting swell of his ass.

This...this is some next level shit.

Keith is completely taken.

And he’s only seeing it from behind.

And he-...he has a job to do. Yes. This isn’t about him.

Keith tries to keep his breath even and approaches them, setting the scotch glass down on the table next to the customer’s chair, and he almost gets away clean when a familiar hand reaches out - loops around Keith’s wrist - fingers sliding up his forearm.

They leave electricity in their wake and Keith swallows, heart pumping. Get it together. “Did you...need anything else?”

The man doesn’t seem interested but Lance speaks instead, not once turning to look at him and continuing to sway his way up his body. “Ice…”

Another stall.

Keith blinks.

Ice.

He wants ice.

Pulling away from the touch is second nature - as is getting the fuck out of the room - and when Keith finally disappears back into the fancy hallway, he takes a second to let out his breath, eyes closing as he stands there trying to get his shit together.

Holy shit.

Holy shit that was something.

And he still has a fucking job to do.

He pushes back into the main room but his heart’s still pounding in his chest. He slides under the bar-top but the electricity is still shooting up his arm.

“Can you go bring them ice?” He asks Shiro, and he doesn’t even have to fake his desperation.

Because Shiro, god bless him, he takes one look at his brother, brows coming together in thoughtful concern, and then nods, “Sure thing,” scooping into the ice bin without a single question.

He leaves the way Keith came, and Keith knows it’s only going to be a minute before he finds out why, but he’ll be damned if he goes in there while Lance is giving a lap dance ever again.

 

* * *

 

_“where has this boy been all my life smdh”_

_“catch this bitch hittin up lady a’s every single night if i had the money”_

_“Do you guys think Blue would dance at my sister’s bachelorette party? She’s obsessed and I have to say so am I.”_

_“Perfection thy name is Blue Rider.”_

 

* * *

 

On their second real date, Isaac drove Keith away from campus on his motorcycle again and it was just like the first time. With the open fields. And the soothing breeze. And the stars above and below and around. Keith doesn’t know what they’re trying to get away from, but they are. And when they’re away, they’re good. And when they’re good, he’s falling up into the sky, fingers clutching at the sleeve of Isaac’s leather jacket.

He falls.

And he falls.

And he falls until he’s rightside up again.

Isaac’s jacket is warm, inside and out. Keith’s warm, inside and out.

It’s good and they’re good and Keith doesn’t know what they’re trying to get away from.

 

* * *

 

“This isn’t working.”

The sun is starting to set. The sky is orange and yellow, and Keith’s about to leave for Lady A's, so it’s maybe not the best time to say it, but…

“Isaac?”

“This again? It’s been a while.”

The sunset bathes the living room’s white walls orange - Keith’s skin. “I’m serious. We said we were gonna try, but-... I mean, now-”

“Now’s not that bad.” Isaac cuts him off. Doesn’t even look up. “You’re overthinking it. Nothing is ever as good as it is in the beginning.”

It’s dismissing and it’s hurtful and it’s nothing new.

It stopped being new a long time ago.

“Isaac,” he tries again, eyes closing, “It’s not _working-”_

“So what, you wanna end it? You’re not even gonna try anymore?”

Dread is seeping. “I _am_ trying.”

“That why you’re trying to cut me off?”

“I’m not, I’m just-”

“What’d I say all the other times?”

Keith’s eyes lower. Voice small. Nothing new. “Breaking up isn’t the way.”

“Breaking up isn’t the way. That’s right.”

Clouds pass over. Dull the color. The walls.

“I’m not happy,” Keith says.

Isaac frowns. “Yeah, well no one’s actually happy.”

He gets up.

He grabs the lighter off the coffee table.

He slams the back door on his way out.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  

 

Keith doesn’t tell anyone. He hasn’t all the other times he's tried, so why would he now? They can go on believing that he’s actually a lazy piece of shit who won’t get off his ass and get stuff done. It’s better than the alternative.

“Uh oh, that is the _biggest_ sad face I’ve ever seen in my life.”

It’s usually hard not to smile during these interactions, except it’s the first time tonight he’s seen Blue, and it’s after a full night’s work, and Shiro had to call off so it’s just been him and he’s-

“I need to get wasted.”

Blue perks up at that a bit, a careful eyebrow raising. “What kind of wasted?”

“Drunk.”

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

The glasses clink together as Keith pushes them all the way to the back of the shelf. They’re the last ones here. It’s fate. “Gonna drink with me or not?”

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

“..n’then...n’then Hunk’s like… ‘why’s our stash in the Brita filter?’” Lance’s fit of laughter rings off the club’s dark walls, his hands over his sides on the way down.

It’s easier to accept the smile that transfers now, Keith’s head swimming from his cross-legged seat on the bar-top. “Who is that?” he asks to ask. Because honestly that name’s been brought up so many times by now and-

“Who, Hunk?”

“Yeah.”

Lance wipes away a tear from the corner of his eye, “Hunk’s the...the greatest human being on this _entire planet_.” He finishes it off with of sip of his drink.

Keith nods. “Ah...that explains it…”

“But no-... No he’s-...we’re best friends. And roomies.”

“Total package.”

“Fuck yeah.”

Keeping track of how much they drink so they can compensate the money is getting trickier and trickier. But at least Keith’s a lot better at making his own mixed drinks now. And at least he isn’t thinking about things he doesn’t want to think about.

“You should do it.”

He flicks his attention up. “What.”

“You-, oh sorry. You should try a Blue Rider.”

Keith grimaces. “Lance-”

“The time is right!”

“I still don’t-...champagne’s not good even if you’re drunk already.”

“I’ll make it for you,” he insists, already scrambling up, “with less champagne.”

“Any’s too much.”

But he’s already behind the bar - in Keith’s dojo - staring at the selection of bottles before pulling the ones he needs with surprising grace.

“Alright alright alright,” he hums to himself, looking around for the right kind of glass and then setting to work.

Keith refuses to turn. Refuses to watch what will probably be a drastically overpoured drink. There’s a lot of questionable glass clinking and a murmured “whoops” and then Lance is returning on the other side of the bar, stepping up to where Keith is waiting, legs still crossed and gaze doubtful.

“Bottoms up, buddy.”

The liquid is bluer than when Keith makes them. Less dulled by champagne. But the straw is right and the little wedge of lemon is skewered onto the rim of the glass in an added flare and Keith’s having a hard time saying no, Lance standing there offering the glass with a grin.

Fine. He takes it. Sniffs it a little. Takes a second to pose with zero amusement when Blue’s Snapchat is whipped out.

“Makin’ history,” he explains, typing something and then sliding his phone away.

Keith’ll have to look at his story later. But right now. “If it’s gross, we get to put something besides k-hop on.”

“Deal.”

And with that, Keith fishes the straw into his mouth and takes a sip - just a small one - the burst of fizz and lemon and _ew champagne_ making his nose scrunch up.

“Don’t tell me. You love it.”

Lance is joking but Keith’s disgust is serious, the glass not getting a chance to touch the bar-top before Lance is swooping in and taking it from him. He tongues the straw into the side of his mouth and takes a sip, eyes not leaving Keith’s once.

“S’good,” he smirks, and Keith suddenly has the very intense urge to _touch._

Scooting to the edge of the bar is easy and so is uncrossing his legs to hook them around the back of Lance’s thighs, using the hold to pull him in until he’s flush against the counter - against Keith’s lap.

Lance’s brows lift a little as he eyes him up and down, tongue slowly leading the straw back into his mouth.

“You can’t actually like it,” Keith murmurs, straightening his posture into something playfully inviting and tilting his face to look up at him.

Lance smirks. “Oh I like it alright.” And when Keith’s close enough, mouth parted and closing in, he plucks the lemon off the side of the glass and playfully pops it between his lips instead.

Keith pulls back, pout either from the sourness of the lemon or the interruption. He doesn’t know. He’s just pouting.

“You, are _way_ too cute,” Lance chuckles lowly, taking a few slow steps back toward his original seat. “ _Way_ too cute for your own good.”

It’s a compliment and something else and Keith doesn’t know how to take it, so he focuses on sucking the lemon juice dry, cheeks hollowing as he keeps his eyes fixed on Lance.

Next time.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up with a hangover and the crushing weight of Space Jam stepping on his throat.

His phone says 9:47 but he’s unconvinced that he didn’t actually just go to sleep a minute ago.

“Off,” he wheezes, scooting the black cat from his windpipe and grasping for the water bottle next to his bed.

The water is room temperature but it’s relief to his dry mouth. He needs more. And he needs a shower. And he never checked out that picture Lance took last night - he should do that. So he does.

Man. They look good together. Even if Keith’s not smiling and looks like he’s about to silently murder someone. They still look good together. And the text Lance included makes his face heat up something awful.

_bout to taste a blue rider for the first time ;) ;) ;)_

Keith groans, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Whyyyyy.

“Morning,” Shiro says quietly as he sticks his head through the door. “Heard you angsting about something in here and wondered if you want coffee.”

Ugh. “Yes...”

“Creamer?”

“Yes…”

“You’re hungover aren’t you.”

God. “Yeeeeees…”

“Drink that water,” he orders, then with a gentle pat to his thigh, “C’mere Jam.”

Space Jam follows him out of the room, her lazy stride picking up to a trot as he threatens to close the door before her escape.

Keith turns over in his bed.

He wants to expire.

Permanently.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

“Pidge, how long have we known each other?”

“I dunno, like five years?”

“That’s right. So listen- Pidge please listen. I need you to do something for me, and I need you not to judge me for it.”

Pidge eyes him suspiciously, the steam from her bowl of soup dissolving into the rest of the cafe. They're not even two minutes into brunch down the street and Keith’s already making bizarre pleas. “Concerning.”

“I beg of you.”

“Fine fine…” She lets it out on the end of a sigh, “What is it?”

The material of the booth seat squeaks under him as he leans forward, ready for confidential business. “Remember when you screenshotted that snap off of Lance’s story?”

“Yes…”

“I need you to do it again.”

Pidge stares at him, his request reaching her but not seemingly in a positive way. “Keith…” she begins, “you know I don’t use this phrase a lot, but you’re being very extra lately.”

“I know.”

“Like _especially_ extra.”

“I know, I know. But you’re the only one who understands.” They’re not even to the most embarrassing part yet.

“Alright fine. What’s his name again? I unfollowed him after your last crisis.”

“2Blue4U.” Holy fuck, that’s not the most embarrassing part either, but saying it out loud makes it a close second.

Pidge whips out her phone and types it in, leaving Keith to wait patiently on the other side of the table, his sandwich completely forgotten as he clasps his hands together in his lap and ignores the unrelated outburst from the table of ladies next to them. She taps a few things, the screen’s reflection in her glasses changing to something dark red, and the expression underneath it flashing with surprise as her eyes read over the words.

“Don’t say anything.” Keith begs quietly. “Please not even one word.”

He knows. And he knows it’s weird that he wants it.

But he wants it.

Pidge taps some more things on her phone and then sets it down and looks at him, her lips purposely sealed the entire time.

Keith’s pocket vibrates.

He doesn’t even look.

“Thank you.”

Pidge takes a long, loud slurp of her soup.

 

* * *

 

The fourth and fifth and sixth and seventh time Keith and Isaac went to the clearing far away from the college it was the same.

Wide space.

Wide sky.

Isaac throws the kickstand to his motorcycle down and throws Keith down and it hurts a little bit but Isaac is grinning. So Keith is grinning. And the grass is cool where it pokes his bare back - where his shirt rides up. It’s cool and Isaac is cool and Keith lets him ease his bangs to the side and his head to the side and his underwear to the side and Keith falls into deep space.

 

* * *

 

_Snapchat_   
_from hahathenwhat_

Open.

_hey gloves u as bored as i am?_

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

“So let me get this straight. You moved from the west coast...to the midwest? On purpose?”

Lance’s laugh is light like his smile. It brightens up the back of his car better than the sun that’s peeking through the threatening rain clouds outside. “Chicago’s cool!”

Keith scoffs, pulling his legs up onto the seat into something more comfortable. “San Francisco _has_ to be ten times cooler. It _has_ to be.”

“You ever been there?”

“No.”

“Then don’t judge!”

They made it to the back seat - made it to their spot - and then forgot to actually pull the weed out. Neither of them even realize it either.

“Alright alright that’s enough about me. You graduated, right?” When Keith nods, he asks it. “So what were you in for? What’re you devoting your life to?”

It’s funny in the way that it isn’t how the majority of the population asks Keith that question. “Art Ed,” he answers.

It launches Lance into a wave of wiggly eyebrows. “Ahh art school, huh? Totally called it. What’s your fave?”

Always people’s follow up question. “To do or to look at?” is Keith’s.

Lance smiles. “Both.”

And it’s the question Keith dreads, but for some reason, he’s got the feeling Lance won’t be as judgmental as everyone else. “Okay, uh… Well I liked the studio class for printmaking-”

“What’s that.”

“Printmaking?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like…” Keith explains this almost every time, but still doesn’t have a good succinct answer. “Screenprinting. Or etching into a woodblock or metal and putting it through a press onto paper.”

Lance listens from his spot on the other side of the seat with a kind of childlike interest, eye contact refusing to fail, “That sounds awesome.”

Even when Keith’s does. “Uh, yeah...it is pretty awesome.”

“Do you have some?”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of your printmaking stuff. Like shit you made. Did you hang onto any of it?”

Dangerous waters. A handful of heavy raindrops plop off the roof of the car as a preview of what's to come. “Possibly.”

“Can I _possibly_ see it?”

Keith’s gaze drops away, heat settling in his face. “Possibly.”

“Aw, shy.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

Lance chuckles, “Okay. Hmm, let’s see.” He’s thinking. He’s actually trying to change the topic. “Oh! Okay so, since you’re an art kid, that means you watch anime too, right?”

Keith narrows his eyes. “What? No.”

“Damn, really?” Lance’s expression drops into something thoughtful, a hand coming up to rest over his mouth as he speaks. “I totally would’ve pegged you as an anime guy.”

The sky has opened up now, rain picking up to a healthy fall. “I don’t know what that means but I think I’m insulted.”

“What?” Now it’s Lance’s turn. “No way, man. Anime is awesome.”

“You’re saying you watch it?”

“Hell yeah I watch it.”

Keith double-takes. “Wait what? Seriously?” See this is why they should’ve gotten to know basic things about each other sooner. Then bombs like these would be easier to take. “You’re joking, right?”

Lance eases back in the seat, nodding slowly. “Ah I get it. You’re one of _those_ people.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Have you ever watched an episode of anything in your entire life?”

Keith pauses. Direct hit. “No.”

“Then you don’t get to shit on me for liking it yet!” Lance is grinning from ear to ear, supposedly insulted but not looking it in the slightest. “That’s it. I know how you can pay me back.”

“For what?”

“For drivin’ your drunk ass home last weekend.”

Keith flusters. “I thought you said I didn’t owe you.”

“Yeah well I change my mind,” he declares, and starts thumbing through his phone. “You’re gonna come over and watch an episode with me sometime this week.”

Keith scoffs. “Like hell I am.”

“Nope, sorry. It’s already decided. You owe it to me.” He’s typing something against his screen and Keith can’t shake the giddy feeling regardless of the reason. “I’ll look over our options and let you know what I’ve decided.”

This has spiraled.

Keith doesn’t even know what’s happening anymore.

But apparently he’s going over to Lance’s house sometime soon.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

Okay.

Okay so hang on.

Going over to watch an episode.

Does that mean…

Is this like a…

Netflix and chill?

Keith zones out as three second graders and Sydney continue to chuck stuffed animals at each other in front of him.

That can’t be what it is. This can’t be a Netflix and chill situation. (A stuffed crocodile zooms across his field of vision but he doesn’t even blink.) Lance wouldn’t purposely invite him over to get busy, right? Knowing he has a boyfriend? He wouldn’t do that. (A panda clips his nose on the fly by.) Would he?

“Mr. T!”

Keith blinks, zoning back in at the sound of Sydney’s call. “What?”

She’s out of breath, a chipmunk in one hand and a seal in the other. “You stopped!”

Stopped. Oh yeah. He’s at work. “Sorry.”

He returns fire, smashing the snout of a plush pig into her cheek, but his mind is still elsewhere.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

**what does it mean**

_idk buddy_

**pidge come on**

**in your professional opinion does it sound like a hookup situation to you?**

_idk how you think i qualify to have a professional opinion when you know i have zero experience_

**because**

_why don’t you ask shiro?_

**i can’t ask shiro if he thinks lance is trying to sleep with me or not**

_true._

**what do you think**

**from a third party perspective**

_ok if you really wanna know, i think it sounds like he just actually wants to watch anime with you_

**oh**

**seriously?**

_i can tell that’s not the answer you wanted to hear_

_do you really want me to tell you that i think he’s trying to hook up?_

**no**

**idk**

_you drive me insane sometimes_

**sorry**

_it’s ok you’re pretty cool otherwise_

**ok i wont bother you about this anymore**

_doubtful_

_but i’ll be here_

 

**\-  -  -  -  -  -**

 

Keith is over at Isaac’s when it happens. When he gets the message.

_Snapchat_   
_from hahathenwhat_

It’s superbly terrible timing but he can’t contain his curiosity even a little bit, thumbing the chat bubble open without even fifteen seconds passing. It’s desperate according to Snapchat protocol, but Keith’s desperate for a distraction - for an out - for anything really.

_alright mami i found the perfect one to pop ur cherry. hmu if ur free tonight._

...jesus christ. Is Keith seriously stupid for thinking this is a booty call? Is he the only one?

He glances over at where Isaac is watching TV, legs stretched out and gaze heavy. Keith’s supposed to be here tonight, spending time with him like he usually does...

But.

**what time**

_any time - its chill over here_

Any time. Keith subtly glances down at his outfit. Runs a hand through his hair. He can’t go over like this if he wants to avoid looking like garbage. He’s gotta get home first.

But.

He looks over to where Isaac sits none the wiser.

Okay.

“I think I’m gonna head out…” He says it calmly, not showing the unease in his voice. Because maybe… Maybe if he just plays this super calmly...

Isaac turns his attention from the TV toward him. “You’re leaving?”

But Keith’s already thrown on his poker face - a little convincing wince even. “Yeah, I don’t feel very good.”

It doesn't land. “Thought you were gonna stay here tonight.”

Poker face. Poker face. “You don’t want me puking over here, do you?”

Isaac inspects him with a long look, like he’s scanning him for something that Keith’s trying to hide - a real good up-down that Keith can physically feel over his skin. Then: “You can stay, doesn’t matter to me.”

Damn. Stick to it. “Think I’d rather just be home.”

The TV flashes back to his show, and Isaac hangs on for one more moment before turning back to it. “You should just stay here.”

Keith steadies himself. Controls his sigh on the exhale so it comes out as a normal breath instead of a noticeable huff. “I don’t feel good.”

“Then rest.”

“I will once I’m home.”

Isaac turns again. “You’re not resting if you’re driving around.”

“I’m going home-”

“You’re bailing-”

“-I’m not-”

“-yeah you _are_ -”

“-I’m _not_ -”

“-then sit down.”

Keith blinks. Gets his bearings. Didn’t even realize he was standing until right this second. Isaac’s sitting on the edge of the couch cushion. Watching him. It happens in the blink of an eye and the emotion of it comes rushing in to catch up.

He takes a breath. “I don’t wanna fight.”

“You’re the one making it happen,” Isaac says. He’s perched. Ready to move. Making Keith feel like something that needs to be reeled in. “Just sit down, babe.”

He says it in a way that should be caring. That sounds loving to people passing by. Keith is not passing by. Keith is stuck in the middle of it. And his pulse is heavy against his wrists. “I’m going home.”

“You’re not going home.”

“I’m _going-_ ” he steps toward the door - knows he’s too slow - knows Isaac is closer anyway and it was a stupid attempt because now he’s standing in front of it. “Move.”

“Sit down.”

“Move, Isaac!”

“Just sit down! Why are you acting like this?” He asks it. He actually asks it. And Keith doesn’t know _why_ he’s acting like this - why he’s-... But no. He’s not the one being fucking ridiculous right now.

He takes another breath. Closes his eyes where he stands. Speaks evenly, the slightest wobble to his words as his heart caves and pounds in tandem. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel good. And I want to go home.” It’s not a lie anymore. “Can you please move…”

His request is an understandable one.

He thinks so, at least.

Isaac looks at him like he’s concerned but Keith’s seen it enough times to know it’s all bullshit. A front.

“Please,” he tries once more, “I’m sorry...” and this time, it sticks.

Isaac sighs, and then takes a step away from the door.

Keith grabs his shoes and pushes outside with tense shoulders and purpose behind every step.

He's not sorry.

But he knows why he said it.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

He shakes it off - physically shakes his entire head and his shoulders and slaps his hands on his face in front of his bedroom mirror and _shakes that shit off._

It’s done. It’s over with. Keith is home and he’s got a shower to take and an outfit to pick out and a shit ton of self-pep-talking to do.

He settles for comfortable black leggings and a loose, white, thick-banded tank - something that doesn’t make it look like he’s trying too hard but is still put together well. He ties his hair up. Studs. Foundation. Settles on a nice pair of white kicks and a light cologne that smells clean without being overbearing.

He puts a lot of effort into looking like he hasn’t put in a lot of effort. But he looks good, he thinks. Definitely Netflix and chill vibe whether he or Pidge turn out to be right about which way it’s going.

Space Jam jumps up onto the ledge of his mirror with a quiet _mmrp!_ , making herself known with a few bumps of her head against his hand. He humors her. Pats her rump. Takes a nice deep breath and then carries her out with him to the front of the apartment.

“New cologne?” Shiro asks absentmindedly.

“No.” His brother’s attention is still on the book in his lap, so he figures it’s safe to add a nonchalant, “Gonna hang with Lance a little. Be back at some point.”

Shiro looks up just as Jam lands gracefully on the floor. “You’re what now?”

But Keith’s already halfway out the door. “Later.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

He drives by Lance’s apartment building three times because his GPS is fucking up. And heaven forbid things just go smoothly, right? But he gets there. And he parks on the street where he’s like 92% positive he won’t get a ticket. And he pushes himself into the building and scans the numbers on the doors for 9F.

9F.

9F 9F 9F. Here it is.

A dog’s barks are muffled from within another apartment as Keith allows himself a second to get his act together, tucking his hair behind his ear and readjusting an earring before landing a few swift knocks on the door.

The dog continues to bark. Deep. Maybe a pit bull. Keith taps his fingers on his thighs and checks where he saved Lance’s message with his address just in case. Yep, definitely 9F.

More barking. Then muffled shifting. Then the solid brown door is opening and Keith is forcing himself into a laid-back smile just in time for:

“Hey, you found us!”

Lance is as cheerful as ever, not even waiting for Keith to respond before stepping aside to clear the way.

Keith takes the invitation, sliding through a tad awkwardly. “That a pit?”

“Across the hall? Oh yeah, that’s Stella. She’s awesome.”

Keith doesn’t really hear him. Didn’t really care about the answer in the first place so he’s not sure why he asked it. Nerves maybe? Doesn’t matter. He’s in and that’s the hardest part.

“Thought you were gonna punk out for a while there,” Lance grins, stepping past him and into where the door leads into the living room. There’s a lot of open space. A TV. A couch. A coffee table and a shelf of books and either DVDs or video games. Keith can’t tell which from here. From his spot. Where he hasn’t moved.

Okay, get it together.

“Uh...no, just got a little hung up,” he says, then glances around at the floor. “What’s your shoes situation…”

“Up to you, man. Take ‘em off, leave ‘em on.” Lance has made his way over to the TV now. “Whatever floats your boat. Lookin’ good, by the way.”

Keith slips out of his shoes, purposefully biting down the super tiny ball of heat in his chest. “Thanks.” The trying-hard-to-look-like-he’s-not-trying-hard-at-all strategy’s paying off, then. That’s one for the books.

He pads over to where Lance has hooked his laptop up to the TV, allowing himself a quick and subtle glance of appreciation. Lance’s everyday style is different than he thought it’d be: a loose t-shirt...light jeans with artful rips at the knees...the familiar black snapback that Keith recognizes from the club.

It’s different but good. Kind of aggravatingly good, to be honest. Like he _actually_ didn’t try but still pulls it off.

Keith is bitter but also takes notes.

“So what’re you forcing me to watch?” he sighs, then collapses down onto the couch in an attempt to come off as at ease.

It must work, because Lance throws him a smile over his shoulder and starts typing away on his keyboard. “So I ran some tests. Analyzed some things and came up with some theories…”

Keith suppresses a laugh. “Theories, huh?”

“Yeah yeah. I was like… ‘Wow okay...what kind of show would Gloves like if he had to take his pick? Well...alright let’s see, he’s broody’,” Lance counts it off on his fingers, “he’s pretty punk...and he seems like the kind of guy who’d be into vampires’.”

Keith doesn’t admit to the spot-on judge of character. “You think I’m broody?”

Lance waves it off. “Yeah but it’s okay, it’s a nice broody.”

He didn’t know that was a thing. Didn’t know _lots_ of things were things until meeting Lance. And Keith’s just now finally ID-ing that familiar smell as pizza that was pulled out of the oven possibly an hour or two ago. It’s super faint against the battling scents of the fresh-cotton candle on the table, and the almost untraceable hint of lingering pot. All familiar smells. They somehow ease him into a more comfortable state.

“I guess I’m still wondering what you’re forcing me to watch.”

It’s when the result pops up onto the screen of Lance’s laptop, and then the TV. The title is in Japanese, which means Keith is no closer to the answer of his question than he was when he asked it the first time.

“Ready?”

Why not. “Guess I have to be.”

Lance snickers to himself before getting back on his feet, leaning over to shut one of the room’s front lights off as the video starts to play. It casts them in a sort of pleasantly dimmed atmosphere - mood lighting if Keith’s ever seen it - and it’s enough to get his heart racing even without the way Lance falls back onto the couch next to him, eyes forward but arms stretched out over the back of the couch.

The signals are everywhere - pointing in every direction - and honestly Keith doesn’t know which ones he’s supposed to be focusing on and which ones to chalk up to coincidence. All he knows is at this exact moment he’s sitting here, on Lance’s couch, watching anime. For real.

He knows because the scene starts out as a pan of a nighttime cityscape - people walking from destination to destination. Simple. Pretty tolerable, Keith thinks. Until one of them drops dead in the middle of the street. And then another. And then more and more until the whole city is collapsed and dead where they lay.

There’s an explosion.

A plane plummets out of the sky and into a fiery pit.

Everything turns to apocalyptic shit in a matter of thirty seconds without even a word of dialogue and Keith’s mouth drops open, brows brought together in confusion as he tears his gaze to look over at Lance, who is watching with the most calm expression Keith’s ever seen until he realizes he’s being gawked at.

“What?”

 _“This_  made you think of me?”

“Give it time. Give it time.”

Keith gives it time. He does. He gives it so much time that he’s almost more confused than he was in the beginning. Because from what he’s gathered so far, there’s a group of kids being used as livestock in an underground vampire hangout. And to be honest, it’s kind of sad, actually. And Keith is trying to make connections. And-

“What part of this  _exactly_ made you think of me?”

“Man you’re really stuck on that, aren’t you…”

“Just vampires in general?”

Lance turns his head to look at him, his arm brushing against the back of Keith’s neck unintentionally. “It gets better. They grow up and there’s fighting and stuff.”

Keith wants to keep his committed stare, but their faces are too close and it’s not good for his self control. So he tips his head away. “You’re just saying that so I watch more.”

“Mmmaybe.” His tone dips and comes back up again, teasing. And he’s still looking. “‘Course we could always just find another one to watch.”

Keith huffs a laugh. “I think I’ve had my fill tonight.”

“It hasn’t even been twenty minutes.”

“I’m not into it,” Keith lulls his head back around, looking up at Lance with a pointed blink.

The TV paints Lance’s skin blue, the shadows beneath his jaw and his cheekbones a dark navy. He opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts it just as quick, as if he knows better.

Keith draws himself away from the situation entirely, picking himself up from the couch to look over the DVDs on the shelf a little ways away. “You said you live with Hunk, right?”

They’re not DVDs. They’re video games.

“Mhm. He’s at a thing with his sister.” Isn’t that suspicious. “Should be home later tonight. If you’re still here,” he tacks on at the end.

Very suspicious indeed. Keith tries not to let his brain add it to the list of things pointing to the Netflix and chill option. “Hm. Final Fantasy,” he reads off the boxes’ titles instead.

Lance leans forward. “You gonna give me shit for that too?”

He hums. “Mm. Just a little.” It comes off way more teasing than he intends. He brushes it off as nerves again. “No classics?”

“As in Nintendo?”

“Of course.”

“Of _course._ 64 all the way. _”_

Keith gestures toward the shelf. “Don’t _see_ any.”

And Lance just continues to watch. “‘Cause they’re in my room.”

It lands and hits and Keith stalls a little bit. Bites his tongue. _In his room._ “Which do you have?”

Lance grins, “Wanna see?”

Yes. He almost says it without thinking - without considering the different directions his answer could take him. Physically, it takes him to Lance’s room. His bedroom. And Keith isn’t sure if he can handle the connotations of being there, even if it’s one sided. But Lance is waiting for an answer. And Keith doesn’t want to look stupid even more than he doesn’t want to deal with the possible hit to his self control. So he shrugs without looking.

“Sure.”

And it actually comes out as nonchalant as he wanted it to. Another one for the books.

Lance pulls himself from the couch with a dramatic noise and then sets off in the direction of the hallway, Keith taking it upon himself to straighten from the bookshelf and follow after him.

The hallway is dark - tight like apartment hallways tend to be. Keith shuffles behind him, his footfalls light as he mentally notes the way the small space carries Lance’s cologne back to him, eyes falling on those broad shoulders and fingers itching to touch even though he knows he shouldn’t.

It’s a flashback to the night he walked into Blue’s private dance, and it’s over as soon as it starts because then Lance is flicking a light on, his bedroom illuminated and Keith’s pulse jacking up a few beats per second.

White walls. Dark blue comforter. A black poster towards the back boasting the original yellow Star Wars font title.

Keith continues to follow him until they reach the shelf, demanding his pulse to ease up just a fucking _little_ bit, please. God.

“We keep ‘em in here so they don’t get ruined when we have people over,” Lance explains, stepping away from the shelf that's more of a ledge that's been screwed into the wall.

It leaves Keith to examine them on his own, the stretch of games positioned high and coming just up to eye-level for him. “Makes sense.” It makes the way his eyes fix on one particular title when he pulls it out possibly more dramatic. “Uh oh.”

“What.”

But Keith’s phone is already out and snapping a pic in no time, grin deadly. “You have GoldenEye.” He shoots it to his person in mind, bracing himself for their reaction.

Lance plops down onto the edge of his bed. “Uh...is that good or bad?”

_Snapchat_   
_from denimdenimdenim_

_OMGANGDKAJSFH_

“Good,” Keith grins. He types back a series of taunting remarks, the sudden interest somehow enough to hold his attention more than the real task at hand.

“You gonna explain, or is this some sort of mystery thing?”

Oh yeah. Keith hits send. “Yeah sorry, my friend Pidge has been obsessed with finding this game for as long as I’ve known her. It’s kind of unhealthy, actually.”

“Can’t...she just find someone who’s selling it online?”

“That’s ‘cheating’, apparently,” he explains, although he’s in the same boat as Lance. “She wants to find it in real life for some reason.”

Lance nods, toes tapping on the carpet, and then stands. “She can borrow it if she wants.”

He joins Keith at the shelf again, expression friendly when Keith turns to him. “For real?”

“Yeah.”

“She’d love you.”

“Well I _do_ love being loved.” He grins.

Keith’s eyes flick down to it, then back up, then away. “I’ll get her to trade something.”

“Cool.”

Done. The proposition is sent over the airwaves and Keith tucks his phone away into the waistband of his leggings, used to the necessity after having no pockets since dressing this way a month ago. Lance doesn’t comment on it like some people do. Keith didn’t think he would. It would be a teasing remark if it was anything.

He steps away from the shelf of games with a graceful turn, hands grasped behind his back and resting low as he makes a point to step quietly while making his way around the bedroom.

There are some volleyball trophies on the other wall’s shelf - a neat stack of books that seem to hold no relation with one another - a small green pipe and a lighter tossed haphazardly next to the stack - a clear box filled with a handful of guitar picks - Keith takes it all in with curious eyes, not too swept up to miss the other eyes watching him just as curiously from the bed.

He presses on regardless, stalling at the open laptop left on Lance’s desk. The screen is dark but the book in front of it is flipped open to a page that’s filled with paragraphs of tiny text flanked by demonstrative illustrations - long elliptical shapes over grids that are marked with pencil scribbles and diagonal notes.

Keith squints. “The fuck is this?”

Lance is still watching him, so his answer is immediate. “A book.”

Yeah no shit. It’s definitely a book. An _advanced_ book. An advanced book that no one would have in their right minds unless… Keith’s brows furrow, trying to find connections where there are none. “Are you in school?”

Lance hasn’t moved from his spot, leaning back on his hands a bit. “Not _all_ of us can get our degrees in four years, you know.”

It’s a joke.

He’s smiling.

Keith is having a bit of a hard time processing what’s going on, “I’ve-... What the hell is this, even?” He flips the book to its cover, careful to keep the page isolated and mind racing impossibly faster with the title.

Theoretical Astrophysics: Gauging Properties of Large-Scale Structures

What. W-...

“What the fuck?”

Lance breathes a chuckle through his nose and cracks his fingers with a few distinct pops. “Of all the different reactions I’ve gotten, yours is definitely the most entertaining.”

“I don’t get it.”

“What don’t you get?”

Keith opens his mouth to speak but can’t focus his thoughts into a concise stream. Where does he even begin? Holy-...holy _what?_ “How do you have time to do shit and major in something so…” Ridiculously hard? Involved? Crazy intricate?

Any of those options work, but Lance answers without Keith needing to pick a single one. “It sucks sometimes. Isn’t too bad, though.”

“But it’s-...” he flips through a few pages. “Look at this.” The diagrams and text might as well be in a different language. “I don’t even know what the headers mean.”

Lance grins fondly. “It’s actually not that hard.”

“Not that _hard?”_

“Yeah, pretty easy actually.”

“But you’re-...you don’t look like-...”

Keith stops himself before he can let it slip - before he can sound like the most ignorant asshole in the entire universe in question. But Lance is eyeing him with that knowing eyebrow raise.

“I don’t look like someone who’d tackle astrophysics. I know. I’ve heard that maybeee _thirty_ times this semester?” He looks up into the ceiling while finding the number, somehow managing to turn Keith’s ignorance into something lighthearted.

And holy shit, if it doesn’t do anything but make him feel worse. “That’s...not what I meant.”

“Yeah it is,” Lance nods, the lopsided grin he throws him tired but honest. “It’s okay. You’re not the first.”

Oh man…

Keith scrambles for something - a way to backpedal somehow - and is either saved or further buried by the vibration against his hipbone.

He slips it from his waistband, quickly scanning over Pidge’s text to decide if it’s time-sensitive or not.

_okay but all life changing gaming discoveries aside, how’s it going? were you right or was i? concerned that i’m interested but i want to know if i’m right._

Okay. So not time-sensitive exactly. Relevant, though. How’s it going? Besides being an assuming asshole and insulting Lance’s apparently astronomical intelligence, she means?

“Did the trade deal come through?”

Keith glances up from his phone as Lance hoists himself up from the bed to mess with something on the far shelf. The trade deal. “Oh, uh… Working on it. Something else.”

He’s gonna start working on forming full, coherent sentences as soon as he’s done texting Pidge back.

**if youre asking if we hooked up or not the answer is no**

**not yet**

**or ever really idk**

Because let’s be honest here, Keith’s still up in the air about which signals he’s supposed to be picking up on and which are simple coincidences.

Like the mood lighting. And the fact that he’s supposed to be over here to “watch anime” and yet here he is, still here even though that ship has sailed unsuccessfully. And in Lance’s bedroom no less.

_are you gonna be disappointed if he doesn’t make a move?_

Keith frowns. Leave it to her to ask the heavy hitters when he’s still smack dab in the fucking middle of everythi-

Oh, another one.

_because regardless of whether he goes for you or not, you’re an important and physically attractive individual in society and should not let this make you think otherwise_

Pidge’s declaration sets and a chuckle escapes Keith before he can reel it in, smile creeping whether he wants it or not. “Jesus…”

“Must be good,” Lance singsongs from across the room, back turned but attention pointed enough to comment on Keith’s very sudden lack of social skills.

It’s what, the third time it’s happened tonight? “Sorry, it’s Pidge…” he explains, catching her last text right as it pops up.

_you could always just ask him…_

He slides his phone back into his waistband but the suggestion stays snugly in the forefront of his mind.

He _could_. He _could_ just ask him. Maybe not point blank - like, ‘hey, you gonna try to fuck me or not?’ - but something with more tact. Because he’s not going to lie, the longer this remains open-ended, the more frazzled his nerves are going to be. Not that he’d actually go along with it if Lance _did_ try, that is. He’d definitely put a stop to it...as best he could, you know...if he wasn’t blind-sided or anything...or didn’t get swept up in his feelings or something like that…

Yeah.

Keith’s like...92% positive he could hold his own.

“We were debating about something, actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Here we go. Might as fucking well. “About whether or not tonight was a ‘Netflix and chill’ thing or not.”

He sends it out into the atmosphere - just fucking tosses it out there for Lance to either pick up or brush away.

It’s received with a breath of hesitation. Stillness. Then Lance turns, expression interested but guarded. “Oh yeah?”

Keith isn’t entirely sure what to do with it. So he pushes. “She thinks it wasn’t.” More. Elaborate. “She thought it wasn’t Netflix and chill.”

It’s a strong advancement, the ball in Lance’s court again. “What about you?”

And that quickly, it’s returned, leaving Keith fighting against the sudden overwhelming wave of nerves. “Me?”

“Yeah. Did you come over thinking it was or wasn’t?”

Keith swallows, pulse beginning to climb because this is a turning point - could be the turning point of the entire night. “I uh…” he swallows again but forces himself to keep eye contact. “I kinda...thought it was, yeah…”

He gets it out, but the subtle way Lance’s brows raise doesn’t go unnoticed. Neither does the way the corners of his mouth turn down just the slightest bit before he must catch himself.

And uh oh.

Uh oh, uh oh.

“You made it seem like it was, kinda,” Keith tries, not sure if it’s helping or hurting him.

“Did I?”

“Yeah, I-...” he should stop talking. “I thought you were trying to hook up.” But he’s already said it. It’s already come out.

And it’s the first time Keith’s seen Lance frown. For real. Full out.

“Wow,” he mumbles, but every trace of lightheartedness has vanished. “Wow, you really _don't_ know anything about me.”

It’s a direct hit and it’s got something sour uncurling in the pit of Keith’s stomach. Something uncomfortable. It’s the first frown and the first sense of negativity but it’s still different. Still recognizably less dreadful. And it’s not even about the fact that they aren’t hooking up. “Well. Guess I was wrong, then.”

Lance’s step forward is slow but not any less casual than usual. “You're taken, dude. You're a _taken dude_.”

“I know.”

“I said before that I don't wanna start shit. I-...I _don’t_ start shit.” Period. It’s a matter of principle, it seems. “And no offense,” he continues, “but honestly I think it's kinda questionable that you _do_.”

Keith feels that one - in his gut. The guilt. The eye-contact that he’s trying to keep up drops at that. Because he’s been called out. And he doesn’t like being called out. And- “It’s not-...” and he- “You don’t get it…”

Lance doesn’t have the full story. He’s got the front cover and the binding and a couple of the pages toward the end but everything else is missing. And he doesn’t _get_ it.

“I get that I don’t wanna be the guy you’re cheating on someone with.”

Keith wills himself to calm down. To consider how he’d react if he were Lance. To appreciate the fact that Lance is just trying to save everyone a headache, both physical and moral. But it’s hard when Keith’s dealt with what he’s dealt with. What he’s still dealing with. What people don’t understand if they haven’t dealt with it either.

“I wasn’t gonna go through with it if you tried,” he assures, although now he doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince. “I know I make some stupid decisions sometimes, and I’m not exactly great at self control, but I’m not gonna do something like that when Isaac wou-”

Shit. Keith bites his tongue, searching the floor for something to redirect but coming up with nothing.

And nothing.

And nothing.

Lance’s head tilts in concern. “What.”

Shit.

“Gloves?”

“Uh yeah, so listen,” Keith’s redirecting. Finally. “I'll ask Pidge about what game she wants to trade and get back to you.” Moving toward the door. Fight or flight.

Lance is frowning again. Different this time. “Dude-”

“Other than that it's been cool, thanks for the shitty anim-”

“Hey.”

The fingers that wrap around Keith’s wrist are gentle and soft and pull so smoothly that Keith barely feels them until he’s being eased around, fingers on his other wrist and just as gentle. His pulse quickens against his veins - makes him blink things into focus - blink Lance’s face into focus.

Lance calmly pulls him in and steps in closer at the same time, and it has Keith pressing against him without needing to do anything, the sudden feeling of being wrapped up and hugged and just fucking-...just fucking held… Nicely… Calmly… Tenderly and warmly and carefully… Keith’s tense muscles melt. His body slumps into it. And…

“Are you alright...?” he speaks it against Keith’s hair. “...‘cause you don’t seem alright…”

It’s warm. So pleasantly warm. Keith swallows it up and slowly lets his arm rise from his sides. He grabs at the loose back of Lance’s shirt maybe a little too eagerly. Too desperately. But it’s been a while since he’s felt it and maybe-...if he could just-...

Because no. He’s not alright. The fact that he’s reacting to a simple hug like it’s keeping him alive is not alright. The way things are with him and with his relationship and with Isaac-

Keith’s eyes fall shut.

It’s not alright.

He knows it’s not alright. Has _known_ it’s not alright. Knows he needs to give it another try when there are things like _this_ out here. Waiting. Maybe even for him.

Keith’s hands drop away, coming back to press against Lance’s chest before the taller boy can let go on his own.

“I’m gonna head out,” he says quietly taking a step back.

Lance is frowning again. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, uhh…” he takes a step forward. “Lemme walk you ou-”

But Keith is still moving. “It's cool.”

“It isn't a-”

“Lance seriously. I think I can find the door on my own. Tell Hunk I'll catch him next time.”

He manages a little smile, almost honest, and Lance watches him carefully from where he stands, brows coming together as he disappears into the hallway.

“Sure.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

The dogs are tearing up across the street but Keith pushes - up and up and up the walkway and the front steps and the door’s still unlocked from when he left - Isaac is still upset from when he left. Keith can tell because he’s got that crease in his brow and his eyes are dark and he’s mad because even though he was pretending not to be before - even though he was trying to make it seem like he was the sane one - he isn’t. And he still isn’t. And this time, Keith is coming in hot.

“We need to talk.”

“Thought you said you felt sick.” He stands and he’s already taunting in stature alone but Keith doesn’t care anymore.

“I’m leaving.”

“You just got here.”

“No, I’m _leaving.”_ He practically spits it. Feels it more than he ever has. Goes all in because he might as well at this point. “I’m not coming back this time. And you’re not gonna bother me to try and get me to.”

Isaac straightens, gaze turning icy in a way that’s only reserved for particularly nasty fights. “It’s a relationship. _Two_ people, Keith. You think you can just decide that on your own?”

Keith glares. “Fuck yes, I do.”

“Well I don’t agree.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

It all comes flowing forth - the pent up emotion and irritation and frustration that he hasn’t been able to channel together until now. It comes flowing forth and he just fucking goes for it because he may not have _nothing_ to lose, but he’s fucking _had_ it.

“Sit down.” Isaac is taking a step toward him, slipping into the persona from this afternoon at a rate that should be alarming but isn’t anymore. “Let’s just talk about it.”

Keith shakes his head, refusing to make eye contact. “No. No, you’re gonna guilt-trip me into staying like you do every time. You turn it on me and I’m not-”

“Keith, take a-”

“No-no I’m _not sitting down!”_ He jerks his hand away from Isaac’s attempt. “I’m not sitting down - I’m breaking up with you. Leave me the fuck alone.”

His sneakers squeak against the floor as he turns, blood pumping pumping pumping and Isaac goes for it again - reaches out for him again. It lands this time, and this time it’s not gentle. This time it’s not warm and nice like at Lance’s place because Keith is not _at_ Lance’s place. He’s here, where things aren’t always gentle and things aren’t always nice and he’s stalking toward the door even with Isaac’s weight dragging him back - always dragging - always backwards. He stalks forward against the pressure and only lets up when Isaac uses the resistance to pull himself forward, pressing himself between the door and Keith - between outside and Keith.

He does it just in time and Keith wants to scream. Wants to cry. Wants to haul off and slam his fists down on Isaac’s chest because he won’t- “Move!”

He won’t.

He won’t and he won’t and he’s slipping in all those things he says when they’ve reached this point. “Why are you acting like this?” “Why would you want to leave?” “We should talk about it instead of you storming off.” “If you loved me you wouldn’t be trying to get away from me.”

And Keith is done. Keith is _so fucking done_ he can feel it from his feet to his fingertips to the tight clench of his heart. It’s the situation he’s been dreading most - ever since the first time. But he bites it down because Isaac’s not gonna fucking hit him - he’s never hit him - he shouldn’t be worried about it he should just go for it and push through-

Push through push through push through.

Keith shoves forward - arms-tangling-hands-grabbing-teeth-grit. It’s a solid wall and maybe inescapable but Keith keeps trying - keeps his head down and pushes but Isaac pushes through pushes through pushes through and out and down and before it can register Keith’s blindsided and losing his footing from the shove - down and back and hard against the side of the coffee table - his side - his skin - the metal edge draws bluntly over the ridges of his ribs and his ass lands hard on the floor and-

And-

It knocks the air from his fucking lungs.

Blossoming pain.

White noise.

Everything’s muted and tunneled into slow motion.

Keith’s mouth drops open. Eyes widen. Try to blink but he’s shell-shocked.

His arm’s still propped against the table from where he tried to catch his fall.

And he’s…

Isaac just…

“Shit.”

Movement. Above him. Then around to the back of him.

Then hands. Soft in their hesitancy. It doesn’t mask their shaking.

Keith blinks. They aren’t shaking. He’s shaking. He’s the one shaking.

“...-n’t mean to do that, babe-...” and “...shouldn’t have gotten me that ma-...” and “...-n it. You know that, okay? I didn’t mean it.” and "...-an tell you were out with someone you're-...-clothes-...-mean it."

“I didn’t mean it.” That one’s clear. And the air is returning to Keith’s lungs - momentary displacement - filling shallowly and then more fully and then heavily.

Keith nudges the hands away from his side, everything except for the front door blackening and fading out as he stares it down.

“Don’t touch me,” he says. Doesn’t hear himself say it but he’s pretty sure he does. And when he uses the arm that tried to catch his fall to prop himself up, the pain shoots from his ribs.

But he pushes. Pushes forward.

“Don’t ever try to talk to me.”

“Babe.”

“Don’t wait for me outside my apartment-”

“Keith-”

“Don’t.” He’s gotten to his feet. Grabs the door handle and pulls it open, the street light casting its glow on his face. On his car waiting for him on the curb.

He doesn’t look back. He pushes forward. Even when he can hear Isaac scrambling up from the floor. Up and after him but he’s pushed forward and he’s already halfway to his car, the presence of a late-night jogger curbing Isaac’s tongue from acting up as he stays hot on his heels.

But Keith pushes forward. And pushes forward. And pushes forward until Isaac is just a shadowed figure standing in the middle of the street in his rear view mirror.

 

* * *

 

 

On their twentieth real date in the wide open sky and wide open field, Keith realizes there’s a difference between falling into the sky and falling into someone.

He counts the stars before slipping into them, the grass cold and prickly against his back. He counts before he slips because he wants to make sure it’s the good slip. It’s the good fall.

He counts and the grass pricks and his lungs fill.  

He counts and the grass pricks and Isaac asks him why he won’t tell him he loves him yet.

He counts and the grass pricks and Keith says it’s because he’s still trying to figure out how to fall without it hurting when you come back down.

 

* * *

 


	5. I Got You

The drive home from Isaac's lasts five hours in Keith's head.

He makes it through the door just as the green digital numbers on the microwave blink to 12:30. The hinges squeak. The lock clicks. It all echoes through the silence of the dark apartment, and he wills himself not to press his back against the door and just slip down here.

He presses forward instead.

Forward, through the kitchen and the living room and the hallway. Forward, until he’s stopped at his brother’s bedroom door, a hand still holding his side - ever so gently - because it aches but it also hurts on the surface - the skin - and the friction of his shirt rubbing against it brings back the sting of tears that he thought he'd gotten out in the car.

Looks like he thought wrong.

“Shiro…?”

His room is still, the moonlight streaming through the open window and gracing the lump in the large bed - the only indication that someone might be here.

“...Shiro…?”

His eyes sting.

His chest aches.

A weight has settled over his entire body and he just needs it to sink in and dissolve. Needs to rest. Needs:

“Shiro…”

It’s the third try that stirs his brother. His sheets rustle beneath the throaty hum of someone who’s just been woken. “Mm…”

He’s woken him from a deep sleep. Keith knows because he doesn't pick his head up from his pillow, eyes still closed as he clings to a dream and waits for Keith to tell him that he’s home and not dead - or that he’s drunk and accidentally let Space Jam out again - or that he broke something in the kitchen and needs help cleaning it up.

Keith doesn't say any of those things - doesn't say _anything,_ actually - and a few more breaths pass by before Shiro’s common sense is kicking back in and he’s propping himself up on an elbow, squinting through the darkness at where his little brother stands, eyes cast down and glistening in the moonlight.

He shifts, “...Keith...” concern blooming beneath the thickness of sleep in his tone. “What’s wrong...?”

But Keith doesn't know what to say, because he’s having trouble coming to grasps with what just happened himself. The car ride saw to the exhaustion of his heart trying to push itself out of this throat. And now it’s just hanging there, in his chest, heavy and spreading and Keith doesn’t know what to _say._

But, “Hey.” Shiro sits up all the way, mattress creaking and clarity dawning in his voice. “Keith, what is it?”

Three words.

Beyond simple.

“We broke up.”

Keith’s lips form them like it’s a fight. Like he’s still fighting to get air back into his lungs.

It’s obvious and it’s out of place and Shiro’s processed it - is moving to get up but Keith shakes his head - “No, I-...wanna sleep…” He can’t get into it right now. He just… “...just wanna sleep…”

The car that passes through the alleyway below streams light through the half-open blinds. Over the doorway. Over the dips in the bed sheets. Over the puzzled frown on his brother’s face.

“Okay.”

The bands of light reach the ceiling and then fade out, never there in the first place. And Keith reaches the empty side of the bed and slips in like he’s nine. Like he’s just had another bad dream. Like his dad just caught him up and yelled at him again. Like the monster peeking in through his window is back even though it’s just a bush but Shiro tells him it can’t get him in here anyway.

The bed sheet is thin like it always is and Keith buries himself beneath it, up to his nose.

Shiro doesn’t say anything.

But he wants to.

It hangs thick in the air.

Keith slips his eyes shut and lays a hand over his ribs and lets his breath out evenly through his nose.

_Sleep._

 

* * *

 

Isaac doesn’t text him. Or call him. Or do any of the shit that he’s done before when Keith tries to break up with him. It’s radio silence and it should be a relief but it looms over Keith like a rain cloud that stretches across the entire sky.

Shiro presses for answers in the morning like expected, a coffee cup in one hand and the other tucked across his chest. He gets just enough to know that Keith was the one who ended it, but not enough to know about the cornering and the pushing and the falling. What’s done is done. And there’s still the throbbing ache in Keith’s ribs, but what good would that knowledge do any of them now that things are over. It would just complicate things - open them back up. His stomach turns at the thought of it.

Space Jam saunters out of the bathroom without a care in the world.

Keith wonders what he has to do to come back as a cat in his next life.

 

\-  -  -  -  -

 

“Sydney, get that out of your mouth please.”

…

“ _Sydney._ Outta your mouth.”

“O- _kay.”_

The marker cap in question lands on the table with a soggy clatter, leaving a trail of drool as it rolls off to the side. It makes Keith close his eyes in an attempt to steady himself.

Sydney’s having a day, which is usually fine, but Keith’s _also_ having a day. And when they’re both having a day on the _same_ day, let’s just say things don’t always go super stellar.

“Can you focus please?”

“...I am.”

“You’re not. You’re coloring your nails with a marker-”

“I like it.”

“I know you like it, but we have to focus on your homework.”

Sydney slams the uncapped marker onto the table with more force than necessary, her brows coming together in a pout as she uses her free hands to cross her arms with a short whine.

A couple of nearby second graders look over, easy for a distraction.

Keith takes a breath.

Blinks slowly.

He needs to remain calm. He’s the adult here.

“Do you need a break?”

“No.”

“Syd. Do you need a _break?”_

His question lingers and sticks on its second try, the eight year old holding to her pout until the proposal seems to sink in.

Then: “...yeah…”

“Okay, let’s go find a ball.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Fish.”

Processing. “You wanna see the fish?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Keith nods, standing and holding a hand out to her. “Let’s go check out the fish.”

The second graders have already gotten distracted with something else, and Sydney pushes herself out from the table with a screech of the chair legs, both the marker and its cap rolling off into different directions in the process.

She grabs Keith’s hand - grip unknowingly strong - and leads them over to the fish tank bubbling quietly over by the window.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

He hasn’t told Pidge yet. Partially because he’s tired and partially because he knows it’ll launch this whole thing that he doesn’t want to get into right now. To tell the truth, he doesn’t really have that many people to tell who wouldn’t go completely ape-shit on him, even if it’s a _good_ kind of ape-shit.

So he stays at home. Takes a nap with Space Jam. Listens to Shiro whip together dinner from his room. And it’s altogether alright, but it’s also quiet. And boring. And...well, lonely.

The thought that has already graced his mind several times makes its way around for another appearance, tugging temptingly with invitation.

He _could._

It wouldn’t hurt anything.

Shit, why the hell not.

**guess who just broke up with their boyfriend**

It raises this sour feeling from way low in his stomach but he sends it anyway, the pitiful tinge of feeling sorry for himself impossible to ignore at this point.

He needs to distract himself.

 _Snapchat from_  
_hahathenwhat_

Keith flicks open the blue message bubble, a short chuckle breathing out through his nose at the response: several pairs of open eyes, and even more magnifying glass emojis.

Excessive.

**are you high**

_ya come over_

_hunk here come hang_

Keith blinks. Oh. It’s not exactly what he had in mind when he initialized this - shit, he was just looking for someone to talk to - but he guesses there’s no harm in-

_mami mami mami mamii_

**jfc ok**

_ye_

**gimme a bit**

_yeeee_

Keith huffs a laugh again, this one enough to have Jam lifting her head up to grace him with a look.

He raises his eyebrows in acceptance at her, giving her a gentle pat on the rump.

Well...he wanted a distraction, and he guesses he has one now.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

The pitbull across the hall is barking up a storm when Keith finds himself once again face to face with the door to apartment 9F.  

It’s only the second time, which means he’s still got the weird tangle of butterflies in his stomach as he pulls at the hem of his long-sleeve out of habit, forcing it to fall over the waist of his shorts. It’s also his _second try_ at piecing together an outfit that’s casual but not slumpy - hence the dark red shorts that reach his thighs just a touch above halfway. They’re snug and comfortable and have gold, circular buttons lining the sides - a huge steal at the thrift store he found them at a few years ago. They were his favorite until he got a lot of shit for them in college once he started hanging around Isaac’s clique. It’s what made him reconsider in the mirror for ten minutes before his phone pinged off, a slew of impatient clock and hourglass emojis pushing him to decide.

And now here he is, standing outside of 9F and starting to reconsider his choice as he pulls his sleeves down over his knuckles, takes a breath, and then knocks solidly against the door.

The pitbull barks excitedly - Stella (Keith doesn’t know why that name pops into his mind) - but it doesn’t matter much when the door swings open, revealing _not_ Lance, which can only mean it’s-

“Hey man! You’re Keith, right?”

“Y-...uh... Hey.”

The first thing that Keith notices about Hunk is that he actually _knows_ him - has seen him around at the club before but has never had any reason to connect the name to the face.

The second thing Keith notices about him is his complete commitment to cordiality. He notices it because he goes to shake the hand offered to him, only to be pulled into a one-armed hug/back pat that comes off smooth on Hunk’s part but leaves Keith stumbling into him like a newborn giraffe.

Cologne - almost floral. Just a little hint of weed. Holy shit this guy has a gentle grip for how big those arm muscles are.

“I always see you at Lady A’s,” Hunk’s talking again - upbeat and casual as he shuts the door behind them. “Dunno why it’s taken this long to actually share words with each other.”

Keith tucks his hair behind his ear, finally regaining control of his thoughts and limbs. He glances around the apartment, searching for Lance. “Yeah, it-...I never made the connection that you were you.”

And then Hunk’s moseying over into the living room, where he came from presumably, as Keith steps out of his shoes and follows him in. “Sorry to hear about the breakup, dude. Tough stuff.”

Keith frowns it off - “It’s fine.” - notes the pipe and the lighter on the table, but no sign of - “Lance hiding?”

He aims for it to come off casually, so as to mask the very real discomfort of his inner awkwardness. Because who _doesn’t_ love being thrust into one-on-one time with someone they just met, right?

Hunk nods toward the hallway, either missing Keith’s discomfort or nice enough not to mention it. “Decided now would be the perfect time to shower, for some reason. Need anything? We actually just made cookies - I think they’re still warm.”

It’s a few things to process, but Keith gets through them in record speed. “I’ll uh...I’ll pass for now, thanks.” His stomach’s too knotted to eat. Also: Lance hopped in the shower knowing Keith would be over. That’s worth pondering, yes? “They smell good, though.”

Kind of weird timing.

“Well help yourself if you change your mind!”

Or is Keith just thinking too hard as always...

“Thanks.”

He rounds the couch as Hunk settles on the floor with his back against it, controller in hand. “He’ll be out soon.”

It brings Keith’s eyes to the unlit hallway, the faint pitter-patter of the shower finally registering in his brain. He’s not even really sure where the bathroom is, technically...but it’s _got_ to be through there since it’s the only other way - the way to the bedrooms, too - and the way to the pair of yellow eyes that’ve been fixed on him for who even knows how long now.

Keith returns the stare. “I’m being watched.”

The eyes remain fixed.

Hunk glances over his shoulder with a nonchalant “Oh,” the character he’s controlling stumbling to a halt in a field of grass as he says: “Have you not met Mewtew yet?”

Mewtew.

The cat.

And just like that, Keith’s interest increases tenfold.

“Is she shy?”

“Ehh...kinda standoffish around strangers.”

“She’s just staring.”

Hunk huffs a laugh. “Usually she’s completely M.I.A. So you’ve been blessed by her presence.”

The hallway is dark, which leaves it hard to make out much else besides the cat’s silhouette and consistent watch.

Hunk goes back to playing.

Keith wants to get closer. Befriending cats instead of being social? Now _that’s_ something he excels at.

He slowly approaches the hall, taking great care to keep his footfalls light and unopposing. The cat’s neck stretches up to lengthen herself - make herself bigger - but from what Keith can tell, her fur isn’t standing up, so that’s good...right?

“Hey Mewtew…” he says so so _so_ fucking quietly.

She must appreciate his tone, because her ear twitches backward but that’s it. She doesn’t dart away like the majority of the standoffish cats he's encountered.

Well shit, maybe he’s just a cat whisperer.

Keith slowly reaches out, “H-” but before he can touch her, she turns, presenting her butt to him as she slowly stalks down the hallway with her tail up.

Keith lets his hand drop to the carpet.

Denied.

“How’s it goin’ over there, champ?”

Hunk’s character is launching a sword at some huge demon thing when Keith glances over his shoulder, not even comparable to the cat whisperer’s current task at hand. “Steady progress.”

Hunk chuckles quietly. “Literally any interaction at all with that cat is progress.”

Good to know.

Keith turns his attention back to the task at hand, noting how the cat has now seated herself further in at the end of the hallway, staring out at him from the darkness.

Waiting.

She’s waiting.

Keith glances back to make sure Hunk’s involved in his game before pressing forward, looking only semi-stupid as he eases himself closer to her on his knees. “Meeewteeew…” he calls sweetly - quietly. It keeps her eyes on him, blinking slowly as he grows closer.

In his travels, Keith passes an empty room...light pouring from the crack underneath what can only be the bathroom door...a hung video game poster that he doesn’t recognize in the dark…

Then - like a beacon of hope:

_“...mrow…”_

Keith eases back onto the balls of his feet, more than a little surprised by her accepting meow as he comes to stop in front of her. He doesn’t dare say anything, instead opting to hold his hand out, palm down near her face in an offer that Space Jam almost never refuses.

And just like Space Jam, if not for the moment or two of hesitation, Mewtew blinks and then slowly presses against his hand, the side of her face rubbing against his palm.

Hell yeah.

Fucking success.

The head rubs continue on - ritualistic - and before Keith knows how much time has passed, he’s got himself holed up at the end of a unlit hallway, his back leaning against the wall as this apparently stranger-hating cat curls herself into his lap. She kneads her front paws into his thigh - one...two...one...two… - and just as she’s settled - just as Keith thinks  _he’s_ settled, the bathroom door flies open, heavy steam pouring out and revealing the whole reason Keith fucking came here in the first place.

And here _he_ is...hiding in the hallway with the cat.

“Lance,” he says quietly, hoping his voice won’t scare Mewtew away, “Don’t step on us.”

But it’s too late, the suddenness of everything has not only shook Keith, but also the cat, her claws digging into his bare thighs before she launches herself into the safe darkness of Lance’s room.

Damn it.

And Lance is already talking, apparently not creeped out in the slightest by Keith’s lurking if it means he can fire off a teasing remark.

“Jesus, you’re like a fucking gremlin or something dude!”

Keith blinks, trying to decide between standing up or staring at Lance’s damp hair - how the one or two water droplets catch the living room lights behind him and shimmer like a-...like a crown or-...or something…

The hands that tug him up from his spot on the floor decide for him, Lance grinning widely and slinging an arm around Keith’s shoulders to direct him back towards the light. Keith accepts it since he doesn't really have a choice. His senses fill with the combination of a head rush and the smell of Lance’s soap while they walk.

“The big breakup!” Lance postures when they make their way back into the living room, arm still secure around Keith’s shoulders. “That’s shit, my guy - tell us all about it.”

Keith stammers. “W-...uh…” This is all-...

“Hey Lance,” Hunk mentions nonchalantly from the floor, “maybe he doesn’t wanna talk about it.”

It’s a friendly suggestion - one that could easily be said in a patronizing tone - but Hunk simply says it outright - calm as he continues his gaze at the television.

Keith is thankful for it. “Yeah uh…” he stupidly turns his head to look at Lance, “If we could not…”

It’s stupid because they’re very close - an absolutely obvious concept that should’ve had Keith’s brain preventing it in the first place - and Lance watches Keith as he speaks, breaking the eye contact once to drop down to Keith’s mouth and then back up.

And it’s very very close and it probably isn’t intended to be this intimate but wow - wow holy shit, has it always been this hot in here?

“Okay, no problem.”

And then, as if nothing had happened in the first place, Lance is releasing him, leaving him with a friendly pat on the side of his shoulder as he steps back toward the kitchen.

It all happens quickly and it has Keith standing there, wondering for a brief moment if he’s still coming down off that initial head rush from the hallway. Maybe he should...sit down...

“Sorry, he means well,” Hunk mentions when Keith rounds the couch to finally take a seat. “He’s gone through a lotta breakups so I think they’ve kinda...lost their potency with him?”

He pieces it together as he slices through another enemy, double daggers straight across, but Keith’s finally registering what he said in the first place. Wait. A lot of breakups? Lance? “What?”

But the moment is interrupted, Hunk’s answer cut off by Lance’s sudden return, a cookie in one hand and his phone in the other.

The couch bounces on impact as Lance collapses onto it, apparently none the wiser to being the subject of discussion only seconds ago.

He takes a bite, eyes fixed on the screen.

Hunk continues on without a word, and Keith frowns, unable to shake the feeling that he might’ve just been told something he isn’t supposed to know.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

It only takes about fifteen minutes for Keith’s social anxiety to cut him a break - an impressive feat even considering the welcoming company. He turns down Lance’s offer to pack a bowl for him, opting to stay level headed at least for now as he tries his best to figure out the game Hunk’s playing.

It’s a lot of creature fighting. And an inordinate amount of auto-driving from location to location, which therein grants them enough downtime for Lance to lean forward and show Hunk something on his phone. Or nudge Keith’s thigh with his foot to get his attention. Or the simultaneously worst and best combination: nudge Keith’s thigh with his foot so he can lean over and show him something stupid someone sent him on his phone. It’s the worst because it leaves zero personal space between them, the scent of Lance’s citrus body wash wafting into Keith’s senses again. It’s the _best_ because it leaves zero personal space between them, and Keith _loves_ citrus shit.

Eventually, things switch around, Hunk giving up the controller so Lance can play his own load-out of the game. (Keith makes the mistake of asking why they can’t just both play on the same file, which sets the both of them off on a flurry of reasons, including but not limited to: different play-styles, character hierarchies, and decision-making tactics. Keith doesn’t ask any more questions after that.)

“Ahh! Damn it, Prompto!” Lance's cursing is in vain as the blond on the screen cries out and face-plants into the grass in slow motion. It _has_ to be the third time now. It would help if Lance didn’t pick a quest fifteen levels higher than him.

Hunk is quick to defend. “It’s not Prompto’s fault-”

“He keeps dying!”

“You’re not buffing him like he needs. Give him with the magitek shield.”

A huff. “ _I_ have the magitek shield.”

It convinces no one. “You don’t need it - your max health is already like two thousand higher than his.”

It’s what starts off the back and forth, lazy but somehow still passionate. Like this particular discussion has already played out so many times that they already know the next person’s response. “I’m just gonna leave him.”

“You should revive him.”

“He’s gonna be down again in three seconds anyway-”

“Phoenix doooown-”

“Hell _no_ \- he’s staying down.”

“Revive my child, Lance.”

“This isn’t _your_ Prompto, I ca-”

“You should.” The bickering drops out on a dime as the third party enters, Keith sitting quietly with Mewtew in his lap when Hunk and Lance both turn to look at him with silent curiosity. Keith expands, “You should revive him,” a hand smoothing past calm kitten ears. “He’s your only range damage, right?”

The silence that follows is short but not awkward.

It makes sense. The enemies are flying. Everyone has swords or shit like swords except for the blond one. He’s got guns. Guns fire up.

Hunk nods, impressed, and then turns back to the screen, knocking his knuckles against Lance’s knee on the way. “Yeah dude, he’s range. Get his butt up.”

Defeated, Lance shakes his head, “Unbelievable…” but pulls up the quick-slots at the corner of the screen anyway, scrolling through the items with curt little beeps. “Ganged up on in my own dojo.”

Keith smirks, confident now. “Maybe you shouldn’t’ve picked something fifteen levels higher than you.”

“Hunk, the cookies,” is Lance’s melodramatic answer, a finger pointing to the plate that finally made its way into the living room. “Take them away from him - he doesn’t get any.”

Keith’s smirk turns into a chuckle, Hunk tossing him his own over his shoulder without a word just as the blond on the screen rolls over to his back, pulling a gold phoenix feather out of his jacket to revive.

This was definitely a good choice for a distraction.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Lance makes it through the quest. Prompto ends up making the last hit on the enemy that seals the deal. It earns a triumphant chuckle from Hunk as he stands, stretching his arms over his head and twisting them around his middle to no doubt work out the kinks of sitting on the floor for hours. Properly stretched, he fist bumps Lance, and says he’s going to sleep, and “Good to finally meet you, Keith.” And then he’s disappearing into the hallway, Mewtew picking up on some sort of energy waves and leaping out of Keith’s lap to follow him into his room.

It’s the kind of immediate abandonment that leaves Keith a little fucked in the nerves - his double safety-blanket of cat and third person dropping him just like that. And now he’s just alone with Lance, which in reality shouldn’t be a big deal - he’s been alone with Lance a handful of times now - but it’s Keith. And Keith is an anxious boy.

So he takes a hit. He takes Lance up on the offer and Lance packs the bowl for him and Keith takes the pipe from him and gets it going - can’t flick the lighter tightly enough the first few times - burns his thumb a little bit because he forgets to move it over when he tips the flame over the buds - but he pulls it off and _gets_ his pull and things are okay after that. Calm. Eased way down.

Lance takes one after him and then sets the pipe and the lighter on the lamp stand next to them, stretching and crossing his feet across the coffee table. And the air around him is so relaxed that Keith can’t help but feel it too - a massive difference from the doom and gloom that’s been swirling around him lately.

“Lance…”

“Mm…?”

Keith shifts a little, long sleeves gathering in his lap as he looks down at them. _Don’t be sappy. Don’t be sappy._ He wants to tell him. That he feels good here. That he hasn’t felt good for a while but he does feel good _here._ He wants to tell him but- _Don’t be fucking sappy._

A huff of a laugh.

Keith peeks over.

Lance is watching him.

“What.”

“Your face is going crazy right now,” he grins. “The hell are you thinkin' about?”

It’s almost tender. Keith drops back to contemplating his sleeves.

The game got turned off a long time ago but the TV is still on the homescreen. Soft oranges and reds and golds against the homey glow of the lamplight. A sunset at thirty minutes to midnight.

“Hey.”

Keith focuses - the sudden pops of subtle pressure at the side of his hip as Lance brushes his pointer finger over the buttons lining the side of his shorts.

“I like these,” he says coolly, touching each gold, circular button in the row. “So chic.”

Keith frowns. Even with the unexpectedly excited tingle.  “You’re making fun of me.”

But Lance keeps at it, “No, I like ‘em...” and then smiles, eyes flicking up to him. “I like your look, ya know?”

It makes something in Keith’s chest dip a little. The memory is still clear in his head - that time they’d gone back and forth in the back of Lance’s car about it the second time they lit up together. “Do you?”

He takes the bait - “Mhm,” - grin turning mischievous as he rakes all of his fingers under the buttons to flick them upward in a sporadic and playful rhythm.

Of course, that was also the time they ended up making out. Don’t think Keith forgot about that. It’s just...

“Isaac hated them,” he says before his common sense can stop him. He’s not sure why he brings it up.

But the playful pops at his hip don’t stop. “Who?”

And it’s just then that Keith realizes he never actually told Lance his name. “My b-...” Oh. No... Not anymore. He bites it back - unsure. He should just say his ‘ex’. Why doesn’t he want to?

Lance nods beside him, circling the lowest button with his thumb. “Mm… Gotchya.”

Lame. What the fuck.

“You know,” he says before Keith can feel too bad about himself, gaze gone pensive, “It’s a shame when someone can’t appreciate good fashion...”

It’s just vague enough that it’s not a _total_ backhand to Isaac’s character. But Keith knows better. And it brings this sour little grin to his face. If only Lance _knew._

“Too much skin, apparently.” That was Isaac’s favorite excuse. Didn’t matter what Keith was wearing, it made Keith feel like shit regardless.

Lance scoffs. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Who...cares?” There’s real confusion there. An innocence that Keith would’ve given anything for more than once. “What’s wrong with these?”

The pops of pressure against the shorts in question have stopped, but Keith keeps his focus in his lap as he explains, Isaac’s opinions circling back into his head whether he wants them to or not. “They’re ‘too short’,” he says.

And if he were looking at Lance, he’d notice the unconvinced twist of his lips. “For real? They’re the perfect length.”

“You think?”

“For the style? Yeah.” He squares his hand and brings it pinky-side down - uses it as a makeshift measuring tool against the burgundy edge of Keith’s shorts. “Right here? It’s good. Just the right amount for the number of buttons. If it was any longer,” his hand slides down, unknowingly spreading warmth against the top of Keith’s bare thigh. “Yeah, see. That’d be too long.”

Keith watches it all with a nervous sort of curiosity. The unnecessary but welcome touch. The contrast of dark fingers over his thigh. He watches it and appreciates it and lets it soak in.

“Perfect length, if you ask me,” is Lance’s finishing remark. And before he can have a chance to pull away, Keith settles a hand down over his, smoothing the fingers out until Lance’s hand is comfortably palm down under his own.

It’s a weird move - kind of awkward - but he likes the feeling and when he pulls away, Lance keeps his hand where it is. No weird look. No awkward chuckle. He just...keeps it there.

Keith rolls with it, voice trailing. “Glad _someone_ thinks so…”

“Well, as I said…” Lance exhales comfortably then, letting his head rest back against the couch, “Sucks when someone doesn’t appreciate their boyfriend’s good taste.” And it may be from the natural movement or it may be on purpose but he lets his hand slide - Keith’s pulse quickening - until he’s got a confident but gentle hold on the inside of Keith’s thigh - just low enough to be safe - just high enough to send warmth in its wake.

The little flutter in Keith’s chest is annoying. He doesn’t know what it’s fluttering _for_ exactly. But it’s fluttering. And it’s kind of aching a little bit. And he’s nothing if not a glutton for attention from this boy in particular. So he simply sits - just _is_ \- because if he just sits then things are more comfortable and he can appreciate the warmth of his hand on his inner thigh...the subtle press of the pads of Lance’s slender fingers against his skin - still confident - still comforting.

Even when Lance quietly disrupts the silence to say: “So Hunk’s right, huh? You don’t wanna talk about it?” It’s very gentle.

Keith is thankful. “I mean…” he’s been speaking into his lap almost the entire night now. “I didn’t really come over to get into it.”

The slightest grace of a thigh squeeze... “No problem…” Probably not on purpose... He turns to ask it, gaze clear and close. “There another reason then?”

The underlying meaning surfaces - just finely enough for Keith’s pulse to kickstart again as he chances a look over at him.

“It’s cool. I mean…” Lance shrugs just a bit, “wouldn’t be the first time I was someone’s rebound.”

Keith frowns, chest tightening. “Lance-”

“Wouldn’t even technically be the quickest rebound in relation to the actual breakup.” He’s in his head now, surprisingly calm as his attention drifts. “ _Technically_ I didn’t know she wasn’t single before though-”

“Lance.”

He flicks his eyes back up, focus regained. “Sorry. ...um…” Or maybe not.

Keith ties it back for him without hesitation. “I came here because I wanted to hang out.” The tiny grin edging across his mouth is extra. “Plus _you_ asked _me.”_

Lance considers it, thumb tapping on Keith’s thigh as he nods to himself. “I did, didn’t I.”

“Yeah. But you were high, so…” His smile has bloomed into something fuller now. More honest. _Don’t be sappy._ “I just wanted to hang with you. Get my mind off things...you know…”

It seems to be a concept that Lance is struggling to comprehend - his words halted, his eyes searching Keith’s face for _something_ \- but then he nods, a warm grin of his own dancing across his face as he leans forward, patting his hand against Keith’s thigh a couple times before standing. “Well…” he exhales, and then his hand is gone, “Came to the right place.”

He makes his way over to the TV with a little creak in the floorboards, but Keith’s too busy appreciating the subtle ease of his shoulders as he moves.

They end up watching more anime. A different one this time.

Keith doesn’t care for it but he’s just thankful for the distraction, time ticking by as they get comfortable on the couch.

Lance doesn’t make a move.

Keith doesn’t make a move.

The warm tingle of nerves is still in his gut but it’s barely even been twenty four hours since Keith stumbled out of Isaac’s house.  

So they sit.

Distracted.

And time rolls by.

 

* * *

 

 

**pidge i gotta talk to you whenever youre free**

_Is is starbucks-appropriate?_

_If it’s starbucks-appropriate im at the corner booth._

A breakup reveal might not _exactly_ be Starbucks-appropriate, but Keith’s waited about a day too long to finally tell Pidge about it. There’s this creeping feeling that she’s going to find out from some other source before him, and that won’t do anything but get his ass dragged (in a relatively friendly manner, of course). So he walks himself down to the coffee shop a couple streets down, taking a moment to scan his surroundings before finally zeroing in on the drawn up NIU hoodie in the corner.

“Wow,” he starts in right away as he slides into the opposite side of the booth. “The hell are you doing?”

Pidge receives the question from behind her mess of open books, the glow of her laptop screen reflected in her glasses. “Mock curriculum. Can you believe we have to do a practice one before our final one at the end of the semester?”

Keith offers a surprised but not _too_ surprised eyebrow raise. He’s been there. Can’t say he envies her. “Didn’t classes just start up?”

“Yeah, like three weeks ago. This prof is out of his mind.”

“That sucks.”

“Hard.” Pidge pulls her glasses from her face to rub at the corners of her eyes, not even waiting to finish before groaning haphazardly: “So what’s the big news. You pregnant or something?”

Her blasé delivery of such a question is enough to make Keith huff a short laugh through his nose. “Not exactly easy to do without a boyfriend, don’t you think?”

Pidge snorts, moving on to the bridge of her nose. And then it must hit. It must sink into her overworked brain. Because she freezes, eyes opening to look at him. “Wait…”

And Keith is just sitting there patiently, sporting a lopsided smile.

“Keith.”

“Yep.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“ _Y_ _ep_.”

The sudden slap of her laptop closing draws a few looks but she must not care, because her glasses are flying back onto her face and she’s leaning forward like she’s just heard that she might’ve won the lottery. “Keith. Keith, please say it out loud before I lose it.”

He laughs, entertained by her reaction and almost wanting to drag it out, but. “I broke up with Isaac.”

“Yes!” Pidge’s arms shoot up into the air, fists triumphant. “Yes! Keith, holy shit.” She’s possibly more pumped about it than anyone, a fist coming down to pound against the table enough times that it draws a few more pairs of eyes. “Oh my god,” she breathes. Her smile is proud as she puts a hand to her chest. “Oh my god, my pulse is so fast right now. This is a way better pickmeup than espresso shots.”

Keith chuckles. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh god. Shit, Keith you know you have to tell me everything about it right? Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this day?”

“I do,” he shoots her a look, although fond, “You wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“And now I won’t have to bug you about it ever again. _After_ you spill, of course.”

The majority of the onlookers have gone back to their lives, which makes it far easier to speak. Even if Keith knows he’s going to keep a few certain things to himself. “There’s not a lot to tell, really. I mean, I went over...he was being an asshole like he always is...I got sick of it and broke up with him.”

His last words linger between them for a moment, Pidge still at attention like she’ll get more details if she just waits patiently. But she’s known Keith for years now, so after enough seconds tick by, she just nods, hands out in surrender. “Okay, obviously there’s more and you just don’t wanna tell me but that’s fine. I’ll take it. Oh my god, Keith. I’m buying you a coffee.”

“I don’t really want a co-”

“With whipped cream-”

“That’s not-”

“And like ten espresso shots.”

“Pidge, I’ll die,” he grins. “My body can’t handle that - I’m not you.”

She settles. “Alright one, then.” A peek. “Two?” Keith is giving her a look again. “Okay just one. But definitely whipped cream.”

She’s scurrying over to the counter before Keith can put up more to the fight he’s already losing, leaving him to sink into the booth seat and let out his breath.

Wow. That actually went really well. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but that was actually...well _okay._

He startles at the cup that’s suddenly slammed down in front of him. It’s huge. And there is in fact whipped cream.

“How many did you have them put in?” he asks hesitantly from his seat.

But Pidge simply grins, glasses reflecting the sun as she pats his head and then slides back into the booth across from him.

He’s going to die.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

He doesn’t die. Not technically. But he’s flying _way_ fucking high on caffeine by the time he gets home, Shiro pausing to shoot him a confused eyebrow raise from the door when he walks in on him cleaning the living room.

“What’re you doing…”

“Dusting.” Obviously. He brandishes the long, purple feather-duster to make it even more clear.

Shiro just slowly blinks at him - at the bandanna he’s tied around his head to keep his hair clean. “I’ve never seen you dust anything in my life. I didn’t think you knew we even _have_ a duster.”

Keith lifts a picture frame with one hand and sweeps away the gathering dust bunnies with the other. “Can we get pizza for dinner?”

A new topic of conversation. His brother rolls with it. “Deep dish, I assume?”

“Duh.”

He’s got the entire TV stand looking brand new by the time Shiro turns for the other room, apparently deciding not to question his little brother’s unexpected cleaning streak _too_ much. “I’ll go call it in.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

The skin around Keith’s ribs is starting to bruise. Still reddened. Becoming purple now.

He stares at the bruising in the mirror as he stands with an arm up to assess how easily it can be seen under his crop top. If he keeps his elbow down, it stays covered for the most part - blocked by his arm and the edge of the fabric. But he knows it’s not enough. Knows he can’t work where he works without moving in a way that will leave it open to be seen. So he uses cover-up. Dabs it on the sponge and dabs the sponge on his skin and winces as it disappears. Evens out. Purple settles into almost nothing and it’s good enough.

Probably.

He slides his shirt back on before the cover-up dries all the way and smudges pale cream into black fabric.

He has to change and start over from scratch.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

It’s Thursday, which means it’s much less busy than the weekend. A gentle ease into the days to come. As exciting as the hustle and bustle of busy nights are, Keith finds a certain special appreciation for Thursdays. Things are way more laid back. It’s easier to take breathers because the bar isn’t swamped. They get to step out from the counter to take orders or deliver drinks to the tables. It’s just overall a chiller atmosphere. And Keith likes it a lot.

The beat thumps low in his heart as he strolls out onto the floor, several filled drinks clinking on top of the circular tray that he had the hardest fucking time balancing for so long. Turns out it’s all about the weight distribution. Shiro helped him figure out how to spread the glasses evenly so the whole tray has the same weight on top of his hand. Keeping them steady while taking the drinks off one by one, though? That’s something he’s still shit at.

Keith avoids what could be a messy collision with a little spin on the balls of his feet, half hoping his brother saw so he can earn himself some good points, the other half just plain impressed with himself because holy shit, that was slick.

Regardless, that half plus the other half means he’s in his head. Means he’s not fully in tune with what’s happening around him - or more specifically, behind him. So he doesn’t notice it until it’s already happened, the hand that slides playfully over his lower back matching up with the voice in his ear, purring in a low tease, “Someone likes you and I know who.”

Then the hand is gone, as quickly as it touched down, and it happens so fast that Keith never stops walking - can only glance up at the little smirk on Blue’s face as he winks at him and then turns - never stopping either, until he’s disappearing into the hallway to the dressing rooms.

Keith’s brows furrow, chest thumping with the bass-line.

What the fuck?

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

In college, Keith majored in overthinking. He’s a fucking pro. He can even multitask it into whatever he’s doing at the moment. So it only takes him an hour or so of contemplation before he strikes back, timing his bottle pick-up with the end of one of Blue’s private dances, the two of them meeting in the middle exactly as he had planned.

“Have somewhere to be?” Keith asks on the walk up, just barely waiting for the head shake ‘no’ before reaching out and latching onto his wrist.

As expected, Blue follows him without a word or any semblance of a struggle. And when they reach one of the particularly dark areas in the back, he lets Keith corner him, his tiny grace of a smirk annoyingly attractive.

Jesus.

“Okay, what.” Keith fires it off, the grip on his empty tray tight.

Lance just feigns indifference as he slouches against the wall. “What _what?”_

Ugh. “You know what I’m talking about.” The look he fixes him is equal parts annoyed and curious, eyes getting sidetracked down the front of his open hoodie. Focus. “You’re really gonna drop that shit on me and then act like nothing happened?”

The lights dim even more. Someone’s routine just started.

“Come on, mami,” Blue grins, using the change in lighting to hook his finger over Keith’s tray and pull him in by it, “You know I love messing with you.”

It’s enough to kick-start Keith’s pulse, not helped in the slightest by the deep thump of the music playing over the speakers. He keeps the tray pressed between them. A conscious effort. “So it was a joke?”

Blue laughs. “Oh no, someone actually does like you. Everyone was talking about it backstage.”

“Who is it.”

“Dunno if I should tell.”

The urge to roll his eyes is heavy, but Keith resists it. “Why would you start this whole thing if you weren’t even gonna tell me?”

It has Lance grinning, then waiting a moment before raising his hands to gesture plainly at the two of them, as if their current position is favorable outcome enough.

It brings a redness to Keith’s cheeks that he hopes the shadows hide. “I w-... You’re something else, you know that?”

“You look really good tonight, is all I’m trying to say.”

“Ha…” Keith’s face is on fire. “That’s definitely not all you’re trying to say.” No fucking way.

It’s obvious in the way Lance is looking at him, purpose lurking behind those dark eyes. Behind the way we wets his bottom lip. How his grin grows more interested. “...'kay… Guess I’m actually just wondering if you’re gonna move your tray, or if I have to kiss you over it.”

Keith’s response gets stuck in his throat, mouth open but struggling because it detonates in his chest like fire, seeping through his gut and edging lower because-...

Because shit. How is this guy so smooth.

“Or I could _not_ kiss you,” he adds on too, tone not taking a hit in the slightest. “I mean it _is_ kinda soon...”

Keith blinks, words still stuck with his climbing pulse.

“W-... Y-you…”

Breathe. Fuck, just breathe.

He’s here because he wants to be - is staying for the same reason. Lance isn’t even touching him, the barrier between them solid enough that they’re still separated. And Keith...fuck does he want to. Even if his nerves have skyrocketed to a place that leaves his hands shaking. A little. Just a little.

Lance waits against the wall, eyes taking a moment to trail downward before traveling back to where Keith hopes he doesn’t look like he’s struggling as hard as he is. Because this has never been a big deal for them, right? It doesn’t have to be all of the sudden just because Isaac is out of the picture now, right?

Keith steadies his breath as subtly as possible, reeling on his two second pep talk and making sure to keep eye contact as he lets the tray slide out from between them.

It lets them press together for real, Lance’s skin still slick with sweat under his hoodie from the private dance Keith caught him on the end of. It should be gross but it’s not. It’s far from gross. And when Lance’s lips brush against his, _so so_ gently, it’s a last minute out. An opportunity to escape. But Keith doesn’t want it, no matter what the tremble in his hands say when they settle on Lance’s chest, and so he closes in.

It’s not like the last time. Or the time after that.

It’s the same with how Lance’s kissing skills make Keith’s knees a little bit weak...is the same when he rests a hand on Keith and tilts his head a little to deepen it, tongue wasting no time in finding his.

But this time, it stirs something warm in the pit of Keith’s gut - something curious.

Keith sighs through his nose, eyes comfortably closed and grateful he didn’t wear his gloves when he lets a hand slide under Lance’s open hoodie. It’s bold - not in the way that it’s risque, but in the way that it’s the boldest Keith’s been with touching him in general. It’s skin on skin. A slight tremble. Slick muscles. He wants to drag his nails over them but-... Fuck, what was he saying?

Blue hums, just barely, the back of his throat, and it goes right to Keith’s dick - an absolutely ridiculous response that leaves him wishing he could slide the tray back between them to hide behind it. Yeah, that wouldn’t be suspicious at all.

“Mm...hang on…” Lance mumbles against his mouth without leaning away. “Who’s up right now?”

Keith’s brain slowly rolls into working speed. Up? Oh, who’s dancing? He focuses on the song - molasses thoughts at the question because no one’s up. It’s an inbetween song. Lance teases him with a lick. Wait. Is it an inbetween son-

_‘- Hold up! -’_

“Shit!” The sound of his intro song blaring over the speakers has Lance suddenly scrambling, pulling away and electricity sparking between the two of them because oops- “Sorry!” he practically shouts, both hands on Keith’s shoulders before moving past him and out from the corner and literally sprinting - _sprinting_ \- towards the back of the club with a methodical: “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit-”

Keith doesn’t know if he should be focusing on how funny he thinks it is or how thoroughly shook his world becomes just from making out with this boy.

Well. At least he has an intro song.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Blue makes it up on stage only a second or two behind his routine song’s start. He’s changed into different pants and a lighter hoodie but Keith can notice the subtle labor in his breathing - the obvious exertion from running across the club and having to change clothes and be out under a minute and thirty seconds.

At the end of his shift, Keith steals away into the back to snap a selfie to him in private, mouth turned upward and his hand held up in mock confusion. **tfw u ask someone if theyre free before dragging them off to a corner but apparently they dont know their own schedule?**

He sends it off with confidence, a tiny smile creeping across his face.

Lance opens it within fifteen seconds and screenshots it.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_"honestly given tumblrs obsessive mentality idk why blue rider isnt more popular on here”_

_“Is_ _olated audience and reach.”_

_“ok but have you seen him???”_

_“OP idk if widespread popularity would necessarily be a good thing. We would have to share then and he;s ours.”_

_“tru”_

 

 

 _“_ _went to lady a’s tonight and i think we’ve all been sleepin on one very important employee. of the alcohol-related variety.”_

_“Six? Six is smokin’ hot but I think everyone knew that.”_

_“not six the other one”_

_“ooooOOOOOO the shorter one”_

_“Does anyone actually know his name or are we just gonna lust over him from afar.”_

_“ngl i been callin him baby boi in my brain this whole time”_

_“PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: someone figure out baby boi’s name and report back asap”_

_“rOGER THAT”_

_“FOR BABY BOI”_

 

 

* * *

 

Here’s how the dream goes down. He’s in the field behind his old high school - Keith doesn’t know why, but he’s in the field behind his old high school and he can _just_ see the edge of the horizon where it shouldn’t be in the sky when he realizes he’s naked - realizes he’s okay with it - realizes the mouth sucking him off is really warm and nice and wet but when he reaches down he feels air.

Because he can’t look, you see. He can’t _see_ anything else besides what he’s seeing because his head won’t move. Everything else can but his head can’t. So he lies there, hands smoothing through the grass and body tensing as the mouth works at his dick like it’s the only thing this person knows how to do.

His mouth forms words but they don’t come out. Only sounds. Only a whimper of pleasure at the hands on his waist.

One two.

He can touch those. He can lace his fingers with them and bring them up to his mouth and look up at where the horizon shouldn’t be and-

Stomach.

He’s on his stomach. Cool grass. Green and green and green.

He turns his head but his vision is the same like it was when he was on his back. But he’s not on his back. He’s on his stomach, pitching forward from the dick in his ass that he can’t see.

Mouths moving.

Words that aren’t words.

He moans as loudly as he wants because no one’s around and he’s filled he’s filled he’s filled with “L-Lance.”

“Come on, babe, you’re so close.”

So close.

It’s dark as soon as he hears his voice. So close- Dark. Smoke. Heat. “Fuck-”

“Keith.”

“Lance.”

Forwardforwardforward harderharderharder - “L-...Isaa-”

“Come Keith Come KeithComeKei-”

He tears awake with a strangled noise from the back of his throat, eyes wide and chest heaving and the images of his dream ghosting across the dark ceiling.

The silence is deafening. Muffling his ears.

Deep breath.

Keith runs a hand over his forehead. Down his face. Over his chest until settling over the hardness in his briefs.

Deep breath.

Deep breath.

Holy fuck.

 

* * *

 

 

So vague, faceless, out-of-body sex dreams about someone are a thing. Apparently.

Keith tries not to dwell on it but it proves to be a little bit difficult when all his brain wants to do is think about getting fucked by Lance. Doesn’t matter what he’s doing or where he is. His brain is all about doing _Lance._ Pretty much wherever, actually. It doesn’t even have to be outside like in his dream. Shit, Keith would take it any time any place if came down to it.

Well.

In theory.

Of course.

 

* * *

 

 

On Monday, Sydney has a breakdown.

It’s either the change in schedule or the fact that Keith forgets to fix the seahorse stuffed animal she ripped or something that happened at school. It could be either one - is most likely all of them combined that finally sets her off.

You would think after being with her for four years that Keith would be able to see it coming. And in some ways, he can. He can spot the unfavorable situation. Can recognize environments and social setups that clash with Sydney’s particular way of doing things. But it’s always a tossup whether it’s going to mess with her enough to bring her to this place - fists clenched and tears streaming down splotchy, chubby cheeks.

Keith steers her to the makeshift sensory room with only two incidents on the way - not their personal best but a hell of a lot better than they were in the beginning.

And she cries.

And she yells.

And Keith sits on the ground and talks to her and switches out hard, plastic sensory toys for more pliable ones because it’s what gets her to a calmer place the fastest.

They’re in the small, 10x10, windowless room for forty-five minutes.

And that’s _good_ time.

 

* * *

 

 

Tuesday is better.

Sydney has an alright day at school and Keith fixes the torn seahorse arm and she eats her snack with one of the third graders in her class. Apparently they’re friends now. Whatever being friends with someone in third grade means.

Keith lets it be and drinks his coffee, bullshitting with Pidge in their free time before they have to go clean up a floor full of smashed Cheerios.

He’s hunched over and halfway through scraping cereal out of a crease in the floor when a body drapes over his back, two small arms wrapping around his chest.

“Love you Mr. T.”

Keith lets his tired smile through as he reaches up and pats her arm. “Glad you’re feelin’ better Syd.”

 

* * *

 

Wednesday sucks.

Really sucks.

Sydney’s not there because she has a doctor’s appointment, so Keith has to deal with all the other kids without her as a buffer.

It’s a lot of “Stop touching him” and “What made you think that was a good idea?” and “Is there a reason your shoes are wet?”

He got scolded by the program manager the first year for his...let’s just say... _particular_ bedside manner. And it shows the most when the kids are up to some dumb shit. Which is at a constant in this afterschool.

The only saving grace is the fact that Lance keeps snapping him filter selfies. The puppy one. And the color changing sunglasses one. And he even starts straying into the obscure, face morphing ones where the end goal is unclear but it’s funny and cute regardless. Point is, he’s clearly not doing whatever he’s supposed to be doing. Which works, because technically Keith isn’t doing what he’s supposed to be doing either. And it’s not like he’s going to reject these priceless selfies he’s receiving directly from the source.

He grins to himself, thumbing open the next snap under the table, only to find that it is _not_ a selfie, but in fact a sentence.

_wait to open the next one until ur alone ;)_

Five seconds.

Then it disappears.

Keith glances up from the table like he’s in stealth mode - a quick check on the kids to make sure they aren’t killing each other - a quick check on Pidge to make sure she hasn’t caught him slacking off.

He looks back down at Lance’s snap name.

Wait until he’s alone? Is that supposed to sound shady? Because it does.

He goes to open the message option when the red square pops onto the screen. 

_Snap received: now - tap to view_

Shit.

Keith closes out of their conversation, curiosity battling for power over his common sense. What the hell would Lance send that needed to be seen in private? Maybe it’s something weed-related. That’s definitely not work appropriate. Or maybe it-

Keith’s eyes widen.

_Oh._

Shit, what if it’s a dick pic.

No. He wouldn’t do that. ...would he?

Well…if Keith’s being honest here, Lance _does_ kind of seem like someone who would send dick pics. Like, his Snapchat name is _hahathenwhat._ Typical fuckboy line.

But the question is would he send it to _Kei-_

“Mr. Keith-”

“What!” He snaps it on accident, slamming the screen of his phone into the top of his thigh like whatever inappropriate picture is waiting there could jump out any moment.

The child in front of him fidgets.

Keith steadies himself. He’s an adult for fuck’s sake. “What, Jack?”

“Um, Lauren’s bleeding.”

“ _W_ _hat-”_ his chair squeaks abrasively against the floor  as he jumps into action, slipping his phone into his back pocket to be dealt with at another time.

Jesus, he looks down for _one minute_ and there’s bloodshed.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

It’s around four o’clock when he can’t take it anymore. When the blood’s all wiped up and the curiosity is eating at him so thoroughly and annoyingly that he has to take a bathroom break that isn’t actually a bathroom break.

It’s a one-person restroom on the lower floor, as old and questionably put together as the building itself, but Keith steals away behind the door and locks it, the click of it echoing off the high ceiling.

“Okay,” he says to himself, pulling out his phone and taking a breath. He just has to steel himself. Put his game face on. He can do this.

The red square is still waiting for him where he left it in their conversation. It’s had a good hour to sit there and age. To think on all the weird thoughts it’s plagued Keith with during his volunteer time. And now he’s going to conquer it.

“Okay,” he mumbles again, stopping his pacing to close his eyes and hover his thumb over the square. _Wait until you’re alone._ Okay.

Open.

Keith peaks down. One eye. Then the other.

And then he stares.

And stares.

And stares at the white background - the faint blue lines - the large scrawled letters above scribbled notes, cursive and fancy and elegant.

_poop_

Keith stares.

And stares.

And stares at the single word until the time has ran out, and then he’s staring at the blank screen of their conversation instead.

Poop. Lance had sent him a picture...of the word ‘poop’.

“Oh my god.”

A child’s giggle echoes out from the mayhem upstairs.

“Oh my god.”

He just got trolled. Big time.

**w  o w  you are so mature**

He types it in the conversation, heart going a thousand miles an hour because holy shit did he actually just get played or is it his own fault for blowing things out of proportion in his head.

 _;)_ is Lance’s answer. Short and sweet and to the point.

Keith’s pride won’t allow him to let it go.

**woulda bet my life that was a dick pic**

_way too early in the day_

_i dont sext until at least 7_

He’s not proud of the little grunt of a chuckle that rises from his throat because he’s supposed to be offended. But.

**smart. gotta know your limits.**

Lance hits him up with a thumbs up emoji, and Keith forces himself to leave it at that before he makes more of an idiot of himself. If that’s possible. Jesus, he’s glad Lance didn’t see this all go down first hand.

Another shriek carries down from upstairs. Clearly he’s been in here too long.

Keith stuffs his phone away and takes a breath before unlocking the door.

Time to go face the music.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Collapsing into bed feels glorious when he’s finally able to. It’s the strangest thing. Bartending keeps him out until late in the morning, seeing his pillow not even an option until around 2:30am. But volunteering at the afterschool is impossibly more tiring. He doesn’t know if it’s the difference in the age of people that he deals with, because technically a room full of shitfaced adults isn’t too far off from a room full of children. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s actually _responsible_ for the kids, where as the adults could put their hand through the wall and while it’d be a pain to clean up, Keith wouldn’t have to answer to anybody after it. Because it’s not his job to watch the drunk people, it’s his job to _make_ them drunk.

Regardless...to sum it up...Keith’s pretty drained. But it’s not even midnight yet so his body is trying to get him to stay up. Which is. Unfavorable.

 _Snapchat from_ _  
_ _hahathenwhat_

Keith hums in interest, balancing the bottom of his phone on his chest so he can tap it open with his free hand.

_its past 7_

He glances at the time at the top of his screen, face illuminated by its glow. 11:09.

**it is**

_hahathenwhat_ is typing...

_u no what that means_

Keith frowns. 11:10. Does he?

He sends a question mark.

Gets a _;)_ in return.

It’s vague and a little confusing and it lights this tiny ball of warm nerves in his chest because _what?_

**???**

There’s no blue ‘ _hahathenwhat_ is typing’ notification. Keith doesn’t know if it’s because his confusion has pushed Lance off, or if this is another one of those setups that gets him into a compromising position, but…

**i dont get it what does it mean?**

A double-text. Kind of uncool. Keith’s just on that edge of sleepiness that he doesn’t really care, though. Lance reads it - he can tell - but he doesn’t type anything. Nothing. Until.

_Snap received: now - tap to view_

It’s a red square. A picture.

Keith’s brows furrow at the change in context but thumbs it open anyway, bringing the screen just a little closer and squinting a bit at the mood-lit photo until he can make out the-

His heart drops - eyes widen - hand to his mouth as he panics and hits the picture to exit out and thrusts his phone face down against his chest because holy shit!

Holy _shit!_

Jesus christ that was definitely-

The hand covering his mouth moves up to cover his eyes instead, warmth spreading out over his entire body, because he might’ve only seen if for a second or two, but it was enough to register in his head.

It was a dick pic. An honest to god dick pic. Lance just sent him a picture of his fucking dick.  

And now Keith’s just lying here, trying to process in the dark and Lance is _waiting._ Waiting on the other end and-...

Ohhh shit, what does he do?

_ok ur reacting in one of two ways rn and i dont think its the good one_

Keith wants to laugh but all he can focus on is the heat spreading. The intrusive thoughts. The very thick pulse of his heart slamming against his ribcage. He can’t even say anything back. He opened it and it shows and he can’t bring himself to do it. To say something. Because what the fuck does he even say to that?

Yeah, protocol is to send another one back but _shit._ Just because he’s lying here with a semi from a picture doesn’t mean he’s actually gonna _do_ it.

Should he?

Keith scrambles with his phone until practically throwing it on his nightstand, physically separating himself from it and kicking his sheets off before he breaks a sweat like an idiot.

Jesus. He’ll deal with this in the morning. When his brain is working the right way.

But as much as he knows how morally bent he is, he can’t stop thinking about it as the hours tick on and on...the picture...the position Lance would have to be in to take it...the image of it in his hand, hard and ready.

Keith eases further down into his bed with a groan.

Fuck, he wants that dick in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

“You look terrible.”

Even the smell of bacon and pancakes can’t rouse Keith’s mood as he traipses into the kitchen the next morning. The groan in his tone only solidifies Shiro’s point. “Thank you. So much.”

He rounds the table to sit at the end, eyes still shut.

Damn it. He’s so tired. Sleeping did _not_ come easy after everything that happened last night.

“Space Jam keep you up again?” The bacon sizzles beneath Shiro’s innocent question. So innocent. If only he actually knew. “Still don’t understand why you can’t just kick her out of your room.”

“Is it Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“Uuuuuugh…” he groans into his folded arms, sliding his chair back in a long, dramatic scrape to take up as much space as possible. Thursdays mean afterschool _and_ the night shift. Fuuuck.

Shiro answers with a plate of pancakes a few inches away from where his brother is currently making a scene. “Guess now would be a bad time to tell you you’re out of coffee creamer, huh.”

“Ahhhhhh…”

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

He does it. Keith gets through afterschool with his sanity still intact. _And_ he does it without his creamer. He’d like to thank the three hour nap he took on the couch directly after breakfast, definitely in Shiro’s way but too groggy and grumpy to care too much.

It gets him through dealing with the kids, and the walk home, and the overwhelming task of having to do a quick bottle-count while Shiro does the back because they both somehow managed to forget to do it during the week.

Keith settles into the rhythm of counting and writing...counting and writing...counting and writing, until he hears someone clear their throat behind him, pointed but without any sort of aggression.

He turns.

_Oh._

“Hey mami.”

Keith opts out of his usual inconspicuous appreciation to focus his attention on the bakery item sitting on the counter where it hadn’t been before. He raises an eyebrow. “What's that.”

Lance slowly pushes it toward him with his pointer finger as he speaks, something honest in his voice. “It’s a ‘sorry for showing you my dick’ muffin.”

Keith frowns. “A what.”

“A ‘sorry for showing you my dick’ muffin.”

“You’re-... Okay, but why a muffin?” Should he even ask? Why is _that_ out of _all_ things what he’s asking? Shouldn’t he instead be focusing on trying not let the image from last night pop back into his head not that he's staring at the owner's face?

Arriving as far as it can go on the countertop before tipping over the edge, the advancement of said muffin has now stopped. “Because,” Lance explains, “Hunk brought a bunch and I liberated one to become a ‘sorry I showed you my dick’ muffin instead.”

It’s...it’s all just so surreal. The situation in general. And clearly his lack of sleep has his priorities in a funk because he’s doing a really shitty job at keeping Lance’s snap out of his head. Keith lets his gaze fall, the heat in his cheeks hopefully only _slightly_ noticeable. “It's not like I was upset. Just…”  Overwhelmed? Nervous? Turned on probably a disproportionate amount for what the situation called for?

The slightest trace of a smirk lights its way across Lance’s face, voice dropping. “Oh, so what you’re saying is...it did its job...?”

Keith scoffs, rolling his eyes and turning back toward the liquor bottles so he can hide the heat rising to his face at a now alarming rate. “It's _alright_ ,” he supposes with a curt pen check. “It's an _alright_ dick.”

Sounds like it’s enough to wipe the smirk from Lance’s tone. “I think I'm insulted.”

As if an angel sent from heaven, Shiro emerges from the back, throwing his checklist on top of the clipboard and therein saving Keith from suffering through this conversation any further.

Lance makes to head off, hand reaching but-

“Leave the muffin,” Keith orders.

-he pulls his hand back, gaze catching.

Keith fixes him with a tiny half-smirk.

A second of time passes, and then it’s returned.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

So. Keith has seen a lot of weird stuff happen at Lady A’s in his relatively short time working here. But never before has he seen a dancer going super hard, halfway through ripping his pants off, when the entire club is thrown into pitch blackness with a pop and a disconcerting whirring down of machinery above them.

There’s a moment of complete silence from everyone - inability to process what’s happened - but when the emergency lights hum on near the doorways, the chatter picks up like nobody’s business.

“Alright everyone.” Allura’s voice is the first to crop up. She moves through the dim light like some sort of unreal, heavenly body, the crowd of people parting from where she emerges from the back hallway all the way to the front doors. “We apologize for the inconvenience - please be sure to take everything with you.”

“We should go check tables,” Shiro supposes offhandedly, although his attention is clearly still drawn to where Allura continues to escort the club’s attendees to the door. “Just to make sure.”

“Make sure what?”

But Shiro’s already moving - is sliding past Keith with a purpose and _okay,_ looks like they’re gonna go check some tables, then.

Moving through the crowd is kind of a pain. So is using only the glow of the emergency lights to check for left belongings. He doesn’t even really find much, to be honest. Someone left a phone case which is weird, because who leaves the case but not the actual phone?

He’s currently squinting in the darkness, trying to figure out if something is a balled up napkin or something of importance without having to touch it when he hears the falsetto behind him.

“Dancin’ in the daaaark…” It’s Blue. No doubt about it. “Ohhhh- Oh there you are, Gloves.”

Keith straightens himself, determining that the object is most likely just a balled up napkin and not quick enough to get a word in.

“You know how hard it is to find a tiny dude like you creepin’ around in the dark like this?”

Keith moves to the next table, tone dull as he opts to let the height comment go. “You need something? Or are you just here to be distracting?”

“Both. Well- I mean it’s fun to be distracting, but I do wanna know if you’re up for hanging with Hunk and me since we apparently have the night off.”

“That depends.” Keith’s hand lands in something sticky. “Ugh…”

“On what?”

“On what you guys are doing.”

“Blow, probably.” He’s impeccably straight-faced when Keith shoots him a look, only to crumble at the end with a chuckle. “I’m kidding. But he did get his hands on some dabs and it’s pretty tight.”

“Dabs.” The picture in Keith’s head most likely isn’t corresponding with Lance’s meaning.

“Yeah. You know, like the concentrated stuff? Kinda sticky? It’s like extracted or whatever.”

Enough time has passed that everyone has pretty much made their way out into the night air except for the employees, the dispersal of background noise leaving their conversation more out in the open.

Keith straightens from his squat to pick up a ring of car keys. Someone’s gonna be back for these any time now. “Alright yeah, sounds good I guess.” Lance’s smile is a victorious one. “Gimme a ride?”

“You got it mami.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Lance is a fucking speed demon when he drives. Keith was too buzzed to realize it the night he got picked up from Isaac’s house. He’s not a _bad_ driver, per se, he’s just...super fast.

Keith doesn’t really come down from the adrenaline rush until he’s sitting on their couch, but by then, a different adrenaline rush altogether is already starting to hype him up. No cooldown period. Which is fine. Since he’s cool with having a heart attack and everything.

Admittedly, Keith has never dabbed before - in either sense - the drug or the dance move. So when the tiny little blow torch thing is pulled out, it’s only natural for his eyes to widen a little bit. It reminds him of his mini hot glue gun from college, but he doesn’t say it out loud because it won’t contribute anything to the situation and he’ll sound completely stupid. So he sits instead, watching the concentrated flame pass over the end of the skinny pipe in Hunk’s hold.

Lance is talking a mile a minute about nothing in particular - definitely not out of his element in any way and just as at ease as Hunk when he takes the hit. Keith is sure to watch both times so he doesn’t make an ass out of himself, because this is a lot more involved than he thought it was going to be when agreeing back at Lady A’s.

The dab of sticky oil that Hunk pulls off for him with a thin metal scoop is considerably smaller than the one he did for himself - a little smaller than Lance’s too. It’s probably because it’s Keith’s first time, but Keith tries not to overthink it - puts the tip of the pipe in his mouth and sucks in carefully when Hunk gently dabs the wax into the pipe’s end.

The smoke is strong in his lungs. Feels like it’s trying to fight back out. Fills and then punches up and Keith coughs, pulling the pipe away just at the right time to cover his mouth with his free hand. Hunk pats his knee a couple times and relieves him of the pipe, not even stopping his conversation with Lance as the latter dissolves into a fit of laughter about something unrelated.

It’s another one of those surreal, out of body experiences that has Keith wondering how he got to this situation in the first place. But it’s good. And he’s starting to really like Hunk. And Lance looks hilarious doubled over like that.

“How’s it goin’ over there, champ?” Hunk asks, attention up toward where Keith sits alone on the couch but his hands held out to the side to block Lance’s attempts at uprooting him.

Keith snorts. “Fine.” And it’s when he tries to turn his head that his vision lags for a second, the walls spinning back to where they’re supposed to be and hitting him with an incredible head rush that leaves him slack jawed. “Oh.”

Lance’s laughter comes out as a wheeze, no longer unrelated and very much directed at him now, his hands gripping at his own sides. “He said ‘oh’.”

It’s contagious. For real. Keith doesn’t realize he’s laughing too until the corners of his mouth start to hurt from being used too much.

Oh.

Again.

A second oh.

“Hey we-...we should go out,” Lance declares, running a hand through his hair as he seems to fight for breath. “We should. Hunk let’s- Fuck we should see if Shay’s out somewhere.”

“Uh _or,”_ Hunk’s quick to redirect. Although it’s spotty. “Or, we could _not_ do that. We could-...literally do anything but that I dunno I’m just throwing ideas out here.”

“Who’s Shay?” Keith asks from the couch, but his voice sounds weird in his ears.

He doesn’t have time to ponder on it because Lance is busy launching himself at Hunk, smile out of this world. “YEAH Hunk, who’s Shay, huh buddy?”

“No one!” He’s just barely bracing himself from being tackled with one arm. “She’s not anyone- possibly at all I don’t know- _why_ you would ask me something like that-”

It’s the final push forward that has Lance landing on top, victorious as he wrestles Hunk to the ground with a load of teasing that Keith can’t really make out because he’s too busy laughing, happy little pops of light going off in his brain.

It’s like the high off a joint, but amplified - fucking jacked up ten times and concentrated, quick and heavy. Keith welcomes the positivity - no matter how blown out it may be - as well as the entertainment of Lance doing his best to wrestle Hunk defenseless to the floor. It’s clearly not gonna happen. Not with the obvious difference in size and muscle mass. So technically, it shouldn’t be a surprise when Lance gives up to move in on easier prey.

It shouldn't be. But it is. It is a surprise. And Keith lets out this startled little cry when his ankle is seized and he’s pulled, down from his safety zone on the couch and into the battleground of the floor.

The initial impact is a little rough, but the suddenness of it all pulls a laugh from high up in his chest as he braces his arms over his face, his only protection from the hands moving in to pin him down.

“Oh thank god,” Hunk breathes out as he’s relieved from the attack. He must sit up or stand up or move away _somehow_ because Keith sees the movement out of the corner of his eye, but he’s too busy trying not to hyperventilate from the combination of laughter and pulling himself up from under Lance’s hold.

It’s a tricky task. And it makes the room spin more than when he was sitting still, of course. But he’s high and feeling self-confident and actually a little frisky, if he’s going to be completely honest here. Lance’s hands on him are determined but careful - sliding from Keith’s thigh to his hip - from his hip up his side - further up until passing over his ribs-

The pain blooms and Keith’s sucking in an inhale before he can catch himself.

As quick as it came, Lance’s hand lifts off, “What?” held out to the side and the other still grabbing his hip but Keith doesn’t want to make it a big deal - has covered the bruising for a reason - is fucking happy for once and just wants to ignore it so:

“Nothing,” he grabs Lance’s wrist and slides it up the side of his neck, “Just so fucking rough.”

“Sorry.” He means it. It’s obvious in the drop of his tone.

But Keith just wants things to pick back up - “Shut up, it’s fine.” - uses the shift in momentum to push up against where Lance towers over him but he’s not quick enough - reflexes just a little blunted and Lance’s sharpened because Lance swoops back down, rejuvenated by the sudden energy.

It gets Keith’s limbs pinned. Hands trapping forearms. Shins trapping shins. Lance towers over him with a smirk and it kicks Keith’s friskiness right back up just like that.

“Handsy,” he grins, warmth uncurling in his stomach. He’s only 97% sure Hunk isn’t nearby but he goes for it anyway, just fucking leans forward and nips at the Lance’s bottom lip.

Lance’s jaw tenses - Keith wants to touch but is stuck - and the smirk that Keith pulls from him when he leans back goes straight to Keith’s pants.

“Damn mami, okay,” he murmurs, appreciation evident as he leans down for his response, “Gonna play like _that…”_

Keith exhales an amused chuckle, giddiness rising dramatically as Lance’s mouth closes in.

He kisses Keith quickly. Briskly. Pulls back at the best time and has Keith chasing after him with a playful hum. It’s as teasing as it is entertaining and it evolves into this sort of back and forth play until Keith wiggles out of the hold, legs first.

It’s still unclear where Hunk ran off to, but Keith decides the specifics don’t really matter if it means he gets to make out with Lance again so soon, either one of them or both stopping to giggle at something neither of them really understand. It’s the dabs. It’s their brains lighting up in different areas. It’s Keith’s concentration wandering every other second until Lance sucks his bottom lip with a light lick.

Keith’s back arches. He pushes until they’re both upright and he’s in Lance’s lap, hands up the back of his shirt because his back muscles are too tempting to not.

Lance huffs a little chuckle - about what, Keith isn’t sure, but he takes the moment to fucking _finally_ tease at that jawline.

It pulls another hum, Lance’s thumb coming up to brush over Keith’s lips. “Mm, I love your mouth...”

Keith’s brain lights up...chest lights up...eyes light up as he leans in close, breath warm as he speaks against him. “I can use it where you'll like it a lot more.”

Lance chuckles breathlessly, “We must be thinking of two different things.” But Keith’s on it - has been thinking about it even before that snap last night. And Lance doesn’t truly get it until there’s a hand in his lap, because it’s then that he’s inhaling just a little bit too sharply. “- nn-nope definitely the same thing.”

Keith grins to himself, heart rate picking up when his hand drops against the distinctive hardness beneath his dark track pants.

He’s hard.

Lance is already hard.

“Is this about the dick pic…” he says more than asks.

But Keith’s only response is backing out of his lap, the nerves finally starting to kick in when he leans down to untie Lance’s drawstring. Because he may be high, but he knows things are about to get really real really fast.

But it’s okay.

His mouth is already watering.

That has to be a good sign, right?

Lance mumbles something but it misses Keith completely, too busy psyching himself up for the reveal because it’s happening. Hell yeah it’s happening. And it’s happening for real because he steadies himself and then pulls, Lance’s cock ready for him like it must’ve been last night.

Keith’s pulse is pounding in his ears and he can feel his heart in his throat so he just goes for it - just fucking closes his mouth around the head of Lance’s cock with a swirl of his tongue and then slowly swallows it down.

Above him, Lance’s voice has dropped into something low and appreciative. “Ohh-ho-ho fuck…” Like he wasn’t expecting it to actually happen for some reason but now that it _is…_

His hand hovers - Keith can feel it - before resting in support on the back of his head.

It’s not there for guidance. Shit, Keith knows what he’s doing - doesn’t need to be _guided._ And Lance shoots a look over his shoulder into the hallway for a second before looking back down, head tilting as he watches.

“God…”

Keith is in heaven. Is so fucking warm. Wonders if it’s the drugs making him break a sweat like this or just the overwhelming realization that Lance’s dick is in his mouth. He’s blowing him. He’s sucking Lance off and he still isn’t sure where Hunk disappeared to but does it really matter when Lance’s hips are starting to move, the pads of his fingers pressing a bit more purposefully against the back of Keith’s head because-

“Shit...not gonna last long…”

It’s a breath. So quiet. Secretive like it needs to be because fuck, that’s right, they’re still in the living room.

Keith picks up his rhythm, eyes closing because the walls spin too much when he looks up and he wants to see Lance’s face but it’s fine. He can just focus on getting him off - hollowing his cheeks - keeping the space between his mouth and his hand tight as he works Lance’s cock until-

“Fuck-” the hand disappears from behind his head - “H-...hooo I’m gonna come…”

But Keith keeps going - sees the out and tosses it away and swirls his tongue on the upstroke until Lance’s hips are pitching forward, warmth hitting the back of Keith's throat in heavy spurts as Lance exhales sharply above him, hands fisting into the carpet.

Keith waits it out and swallows it down and when he finally looks up, Lance is watching him through heavy eyelids, his lips parting while Keith draws his tongue up the side of his cock, licking up the last of his come that he missed.

He swallows it.

Keeps the eye contact.

Fuck.

Holy shit.

Lance moves to speak but there’s nothing. Just silence. And the endorphins and shit all come rushing back when the corner of his mouth tugs upward into a grin.

“Shut up,” Keith mumbles but it’s contagious. He can feel it like a trillion watt light bulb in his chest as he sits up, his smile too hard to fight down.

Holy _shit_ that just happened. He just did that.

Lance tucks himself back into his pants with a breathy chuckle. “ _Definitely_ love your mouth…”

And the red blush of disbelief is finally setting into Keith’s cheeks when a third voice joins them.

“Alright sorry. Couldn’t figure out what to- What, seriously? How are you not changed yet?”

Lance glances back over his shoulder as Hunk reappears from the hallway not a moment too late, his previous clothing swapped out for something else entirely.

Lance looks forward. Shares a look with Keith. Glances back at Hunk with a no doubt lost expression. “The hell you talkin’ about, buddy?”

Hunk raises his arms in frustration, but it doesn’t mask the amusement in his voice. “Man, I’m glad I didn’t order the Lyft yet. You’re the one who said they wanted to go out right?”

Lance and Keith share another look. Considering this time. Then:

“Hell yeah, let’s go.”

“Alright then go get changed,” Hunk is moving through to the kitchen then, voice traveling. “I love you but you look like a slob.”

Lance gathers himself up from the floor before helping Keith with a friendly hoist. More spinning walls. More grins. More realization dawning that yeah. Yep. They definitely just pulled that off without getting caught.

“M’gonna change,” Lance says. “You look good but I dunno if you wanna like...spruce up or whatever-”

“I’ll meet you back out here,” Keith confirms with a dismissing head nod. His outfit is already going-out-ready. If anything he’s overdressed, his jacket probably going to come in handy to tone down his crop top.

Lance nods and they part ways and when Keith gets the bathroom door closed, finally alone, the warm ball of giddiness in his chest returns in full.

That just happened.

He just did that.

And yes the confidence to do it in the first place was technically only brought on by his high but _listen,_ he did the rest on his own - sucked that dick like it was his motherfucking job. Hell yes, he did. And he did a great fucking job, too. Good for him.

Keith nods at himself in the mirror.

Redoes his ponytail.

Washes his mouth out with sink water and pops in the stick of gum that Lance inconspicuously slides him under the door.

He did that.

He’s awesome.

He can do anything.

Hunk and Lance are waiting for him when he makes his way back out into the living room, Lance’s cologne wafting pleasantly into his senses as he lets Keith out the front door first, a warm hand on each of his bare sides while he follows behind.

Keith swings his jacket over his shoulders as Lance moves past him toward the stairs, a vibrating pocket pushing him to fish his phone out.

Hunk moves past him too, “They’re here. Red van.”

And Keith has to squint at the phone number on his screen for a second before it registers. Before his steps toward the stairway slow into a standstill.

It’s an unknown number because he deleted it out of his contacts.

Because he didn’t want to see it.

Because the combination of numbers are enough to twist his stomach into something so heavy that it roots him to the ground.

Isaac.

“Hey Gloves, you comin’?”

Keith glances up from his phone, heart sinking into the floorboards as Lance keeps the door that leads outside open for him.

The Lyft is out there.

Everyone is.

Keith’s phone buzzes on and on and on in his hand.

“Yeah,” he says, hitting the button to decline the call.

He follows down the stairs.

But his step has lost its bounce.


	6. Damn, You're Such A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ay this chapter picks up directly after the last one. also im just gonna stop warning for extra long chapters because all of them are hella long rip pls enjoy

The bar that the Lyft drops them off at is busy because it’s Thursday - Thirsty Thursday - and a college town is always good for Thirsty Thursday. 

“You like the music here?” Lance asks Keith when they hop out of the van.

Keith nods, throwing him half a smile in the dark because he doesn’t know how to tell him that he’s never been here before - has never stepped foot inside to formulate an opinion on the music because it has a dancefloor and Isaac doesn’t-  _ didn’t _ take him to bars with dancing.  _ It’s too crazy, _ is what he would tell him. (It took Keith a worrying amount of time to realize it was because Isaac doesn’t like to dance.  _ Won’t  _ dance. Would’ve rather banned the possibility than let Keith have a good time dancing by himself - or even worse, with other people.)

So Keith nods. And follows Hunk. And shows the door guy his ID like he’s been here a thousand times instead of just passing by it on the way to the dive bar further down the road.

Turns out, given the fucking _chance,_ he does like the music here. It’s just the right blend of hip hop and EDM without being annoying. It’s got the beat settling in his chest like they’re at work, except they’re not. They’re off the clock and the room’s spinning a little bit because Keith’s high is dragging _on_ and _on_ and the clothes Lance decided on fit him really well, he realizes a couple overpriced drinks in.

When not on stage, Lance seems to favor lighter clothes - both in color and weight. His jeans are almost white they’re so pale. And Keith doesn’t really get the black rectangle outline design that’s stretched across the front of his shirt, but it suits him. Like all the rest of his clothes do. Which doesn’t really differ from any other observation because the guy manages to look hot in a  _ tracksuit, _ so.

“Wonder if the power ever came back on at Lady A’s,” Hunk supposes next to Keith, loud enough to be a conversation starter if it’s chosen to be picked up.

Against all prior antisocial indicators, Keith goes for it, “Dunno,” but his attention is still directed at where Lance has gotten himself distracted at a table of girls a few feet away. “M’sure Allura will handle it.”

“For sure-”

“She’s pretty awesome.”

“Du- Isn’t she?” Hunk’s agreement is full-bodied. All-in. “I’ve never seen someone handle shit like that woman does. Insane.”

Keith hums in his own agreement. Too much of the ice has melted in his drink, dulling out the flavor as he takes another sip. A few tables away, one of the girls reaches out and flirtatiously rakes her fingernails against the back of Lance’s head - black nails slipping through dark brown hair. 

Lance laughs, light in his eyes.

It’s swallowed up by the intensity of the music.

Keith wonders if they know how high he is.

“One time,” Hunk’s still going next to him, “there was this dude at guys night who was  _ stupid  _ enough to smack Six’s ass as he walked by - I mean- holy crap can you imagine being  _ that dumb?” _

“Mm.”

“Anyway, she just happened to be on the floor at the time and handed that dude’s ass back to him  _ good.”  _

His smile is fondly reminiscent when Keith looks back over. “What, she kicked him out?”

“After reaming him a new one in front of everyone, yeah.” Hunk shakes his head, more in thought now. “Dude hasn’t been back since, I don’t think. Fuck, I don’t think I’d have the nerve to show my face after getting dragged like that.  _ Well,”  _ he pauses, tone dismissing, “I wouldn’t smack Six’s ass in the first place, but. I mean I’m a big guy, but he could probably kill me without breaking a sweat. Not that I’m telling you anything you don’t know- you work with him and everything.”

“He’s my brother,” Keith adds in smoothly, readying himself for-

“Shut up! Are you serious?”

“What’re we yellin’ about?” Lance’s voice crops up as he appears behind Hunk, two hands coming down to dramatically massage his shoulders.

Hunk seems 100% used to it, because he turns to speak to him with a gesture of realization like nothing’s happened. “Did you know Six is Keith’s brother?”

“Yeah, dude.”

“Wha- seriously?”

“They’re roomies too,” he adds. Then his eyes flick over to Keith. “Right, bud?”

Hunk swivels his head toward Keith, looking for affirmation.

Keith nods.

Hunk rubs a hand over his eyes for a brief moment. “I think I’m too high for this right now…”

Lance snickers behind him as he buckles down on one last good massage roll. “A’right, good talk boys,” he grins, and then pats the sides of Hunk’s shoulders before moving past. “Gonna go take a piss.”

It pulls a little snort from Keith, which is weird because Keith’s never really found bathroom humor all that funny, but it’s happening so he embraces it, grin small as Lance delivers a pat on his shoulder too before disappearing again.

He’s there and then he’s not. Returning and then gone. 

The muffled buzz in Keith’s brain approves the topic change just barely before the words slip out of his mouth. “So since we’re already on dramatic reveals…”

Hunk receives it with a bit of a chuckle. “Yeah, for real.” Takes a drink. “What’s up.”

Is now the right time to talk about this? Probably not. But Lance is gone, so. “Not my business but… What’d you mean with the whole ‘lots of breakups’ thing…?”

It’s impossibly vague. 

Just- just so astronomically vague.

And it has Hunk sitting there, gaze dropping a bit as his brain seems to go into overtime trying to politely figure it out on his own.

Keith should help. “When I was over the first time.” He’s been thinking about it enough. He should be able to form a normal sentence. “You said he was like-...broke up a bunch so he’s less sensitive to it. Or something. Lance, m’talking about.”

But it’s already registering in Hunk’s brain. Keith can tell because there’s this little spark of recognition in his eyes, and then the corners of his mouth twist in a subtle wince because, “Ah jeeze, did I really say that?”

What? Keith nods, confused.

“Yeeeeah uh... I don’t really think I was supposed to say that so…” Hunk’s fingers tap carefully on the edge of the table. “If we could actually just pretend I never told you that...”

Keith frowns. Can’t tell if he’s fucked up or if it’s Hunk. All he knows is he was right the other night when he was over. He  _ did  _ hear something he wasn’t supposed to.

“I...guess I’ll forget about it?” he mumbles, although now he’s tread somewhere oddly uncomfortable, silence falling over them like the beams of colored light from the dance floor. And he’d kind of like Hunk to redirect them. 

“Hey speaking of Lance,” that redirection hopefully, “he won’t shut up about your cat. You guys doing this playdate thing or am I gonna have to suffer for another week? Not that I mind - I like cats just as much as the next guy - it’s just-”

“He talks about Space Jam?”

Hunk answers Keith’s surprised eyebrow raise with an eyebrow raise of his own, gesturing towards him in interested. “Ah, okay there.  _ Space Jam.  _ See, good information to know. Much better than Gloves’ Cat.”

Keith pulls a face. “What? I told him her- He knows her name is Space Jam.”

It has Hunk laughing matter-of-factly. “Okay- alright, but he  _ doesn’t.  _ Because he refers to her as Gloves’ Cat.”

Jesus. First Keith and now his fucking cat. Maybe Lance is just shit at remembering names.  

“Lance, her name is Space Jam,” Hunk calls out, and Keith finally makes the connection to turn around and catch the absolutely caught off guard frown on Lance’s face as he approaches them, his eyes darting around the room suspiciously like Hunk’s talking about someone here.

“Who.”

“Keith’s cat. Her name’s Space Jam.”

“Oh.” He shrugs it off to join them and grab his beer. “Yeah, I knew that.”

The laugh that comes barreling out of Hunk is as amused as it is accepting. “No you did  _ not…” _

Keith watches it all happen from this weird, removed plane of existence, because when he turned to look behind his shoulder, it had the whole room dragging to keep up, and now he’s kind of just dedicated to making sure he doesn’t fall off his chair.

It gives him a little bit to think, being suspended in time and space like this. 

Okay. So apparently he’s not supposed to know that Lance has had a lot of partners. 

_ -zzz _

How’s he gonna make sure he forgets that Lance has had a lot of partners?

_ -zzzzzz _

Why does it matter so much to him that Lance has had a lot of partners?

It’s not a jealousy thing. Keith knows jealousy things. And it’s definitely not a judgy thing either. 

_ buzzzz _

He thinks it’s like this...issue of knowing the first layer of something but not the next. Not the one under that one either.

Maybe he should be done drinking on top of smoking. 

_ buzzz  _

_ buzzz _

_ buzzz _

Keith huffs, irritated enough with the vibration in his pocket to fish his phone out. He blinks lazily down at the numbers tightening into clarity - feels the ball of  _ something  _ in his chest sink way way way low.

It’s Isaac again.

The literal high of the dabs and metaphorical high of blowing Lance had been  _ just  _ enough to push the dread from his brain last time. Was  _ just  _ enough to pull him up from the sinking feeling before he slipped too far. 

But now…

The dj rolls out something heavy. Something low in Keith’s chest. It’s pushed aside without hesitation. 

What the fuck. Why is Isaac calling him? Keith had  _ specifically  _ told him not to try to get in contact with him the night he stumbled out of his house. Or at least, he thought he did. He did, right?

The incoming call runs its course. Falls out. Silences into nothing but the notification smoothing across his screen. 

_ Missed Call: 1  _ _   
_ _ 11:57pm _

Keith stares at it. Frowns at it. Doesn’t have a chance to delete it before another incoming call takes up the entire screen.

“You good?”

It takes too long for Keith to realize Lance is talking to him, glancing up at where Hunk has disappeared only to leave the two of them. 

He hesitates. Nods. “Yeah.”

Lance leans his forearm on the table to nod at the gathering of people behind them. “Wanna dance?”

But Keith’s phone is still ringing. Still buzzing in his hand. And the thick drag of unease has already settled into his muscles. His core. 

It’s what he’s wanted to do for years now - has had no opportunity to do being shackled to Isaac. But now that he’s here...now that he’s rolling into his third missed call… “Uh…” he goes for an honest smile. Misses hard. “Maybe later.”

Lance sees it. “Oh, okay. I’ll hang back too then-”

“No!” Because jesus, how is he any different from Isaac if he keeps Lance here too? “Go dance.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Go. Go, go, go. “It’s obvious you wanna get out there so just-...”

Just  _ go… _

Lance eyes him carefully, but Keith manages a small smile of encouragement, hand going numb under the table. And it must be enough, tied in with the fact that Hunk has now made his way back to them from wherever he was at, because he nods and then does just that.  _ Goes. _

Keith’s smile fizzles out once he’s passed him.

He looks back down at his phone, eyes stinging from the brightness shining back at him.

_ Missed Calls: 5 _

\-  -  -  -  -  -

They have the Lyft drop him off at home.

Shiro’s sleeping.

The floor creaks in the hallway.

Keith’s head hits his pillow but he doesn’t fall asleep.

And doesn’t fall asleep.

And doesn’t fall asleep.

He shut his phone off an hour ago and can’t bring himself to look at the number of missed calls.

 

* * *

 

It’s seven.

He was so close to riding it out at the bar and then moving on with his night.

He could’ve just hung on through the last two and then been relieved when they stopped coming, instead of turning his phone off and spending the rest of his time dreading what he couldn’t see.

He could’ve had a good night.

But how was he supposed to know Isaac would stop at seven?

 

* * *

Keith doesn’t tell Shiro. He just wants it to be over and if he tells Shiro, he’ll get invested and wanna try to intervene and it won’t be over. So he doesn’t tell him. He doesn’t tell anyone. He just hits the button to decline the call when it comes in the next day and goes to work.

Fridays are busier. More people pour in and need to be served at once. It forces Keith out of his head and into the present and to be quick on his feet, three-four-five orders at a time because he’s actually getting really good at this now. 

It’s been awhile since he’s fucked someone’s drink up or broken a glass or something. It shows in his tips too. Maybe people are just getting more used to him. There are definitely a handful of girls who will specifically wait to be served by him - the same few every time. They hang back and whisper to each other when they think he’s not looking. But he is. It’s a little odd at first, Keith has to admit, but if it means he’s getting a good rep, he’s into it.

“Hey Gloves, how’d you like to make some quick money?”

Blue’s waiting for him at the edge of the counter when Keith turns, clean rag in hand.

“I’m listening.”

The way he silently eyes Shiro at the other end and then nods at Keith to come closer should be the first red flag, but Keith’s curiosity beats out his self preservation every single time.

“So I got this client,” Blue starts when Keith’s close enough, leaning against the counter and voice much lower than normal, “She comes in all the time - pays really good for private dances. Like  _ really  _ good.”

Keith swings the end of the rag onto his shoulder. Leans his forearms against the counter too. “Go on.”

“Okay so listen - and feel free to say no,” Blue makes sure to stress that, a hint of something interesting gleaming in his eyes as he stares up at him, “she’s willing to pay double if you’re in there.”

Keith’s face twists on autopilot, this conversation definitely not going where he thought it was going to go. Because  _ what?  _ “She said that?”

“Yeah, she’s in there right now.”

But it’s not processing. His brain refuses to make it happen. “Why the hell would she want me there while she’s getting a lap dance?”

And it must be an especially stupid thing to say, because it has Lance laughing, eyes falling shut for a second as he shakes his head fondly. Then: “No, dude,” he says, “She wants  _ you  _ to get the lap dance.”

It reaches Keith but doesn’t.

Goes in his ears but doesn’t.

Until it does.

_ “What?” _

“You can say no,” Lance is quick to repeat, both hands out like they’ll block whatever kind of negative reaction is brewing just a few inches away from him. “It was just a request. I didn’t tell her it’d actually happen.”

And shit, is Keith reeling, three different shades of red going to town underneath the foundation he packed on today. Because  _ what.  _ What the- He’s supposed to just agree to sit down and get a lap dance from Blue?

“Why the hell would she want that?” He asks it angrily. He’s  _ not  _ angry, he’s just… “Why the f-”

“Some people like to watch, dude, don’t get your panties in a twist. I’ll go tell her it’s a no-go--”

“Wait!” Fuck, what is he doing. “Hang on, just-” Keith, no, what is he  _ doing-  _ “How much is it? How much would I get?”

Lance stops moving backwards, but still looks just as relaxed. He holds his pointer finger up to his chest.

One.

One  _ hundred? _

Keith practically growls, eyes closing because  _ damn.  _ He could do a lot with an extra hundred lying around.

“Fine,” he says. But he’s not happy about it. Not one fucking bit.

Lance grins, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You won’t be gone long, I promise.”

“How long is not long?” He ducks under the bar top to join him on the other side. Fuck, he’s already getting queasy. Is this normal?

“Two minutes,” Lance says- “Well, three.” He searches the ceiling as they walk, clearly trying to remember the exact length of the song. “Three minutes and forty-five seconds. ...forty six?”

Keith rubs a hand over his eyes. Jesus, he doesn’t need to know the  _ exact  _ fucking time. “Can’t believe I’m doing this…”

Lance hums a low laugh. “You’re nervous.”

“No. I’m not.” Damn, if that isn’t the lie of the century.

“Relax man, it’s cute-”

“I’m not  _ cute.” _ He fixes Lance with a glare in an effort to prove his point. 

It doesn’t really.

He just needs to get his shit together, is what the hell he needs to do. Keep his front up. It’s not going to be as bad as he’s imagining.

Walking through the door into the private rooms hallway is like stepping through the gates of Hell. But Keith steadies himself. Keeps his posture straight. Makes sure his breathing is even when he reaches the purple curtain that separates him from what is almost certainly a terrible idea.

He’s almost got it down too, until Blue leans in at just the last second, his voice sending shivers down his spine as he says, low and playful, “Don’t worry, mami. I’ll go easy on ya.”

Keith’s already halfway into the room by the time he gets it out, preventing him from physically reacting in a way that would show off just  _ how  _ worried he actually is. Because now here he is, standing just a step or two from where he entered, and it’s just him and-...

The woman sitting on the couch a few feet away eyes him carefully - approvingly - and then allows a satisfied grin, red lips quirking.

...ah jesus…

Her eyes flick over to the chair in the middle of the small room. An order. An order, more importantly, without speaking.

Keith’s still trying to figure out if he’s ready to take orders from someone he doesn’t even know when the song kicks in - a drop of slow, steady beats that get tangled in his pulse because whoa wait he hasn’t even sat down yet-

_ -You don’t have to pack your bags- _

_ -for where we’re ‘bout to go- _

Keith turns on his heels at the swish of the curtain billowing behind him as Blue slips through, eyes flashing with just of hint of surprise, and then amusement, when he sees that Keith hasn’t even made it to the chair yet.

_ -it’s our little secret, baby- _

_ -just for you to know oh oh- _

He mouths the lyrics as he keeps the eye contact and then  _ moves,  _ apparently working with what he’s got, and it has Keith falling into an impressive backwards stumble to keep the space between them because wait - wait wait wait this isn’t fair, he was caught off guard.

_ -so get ready- _

Lance grins.

_ -’cause we about to take off- _

_ -take off our clothes, oh oh- _

Keith’s calves hit the chair first. Then his ass. An incredible, chair-screeching impact that turns Lance’s playful grin into something just short of laughter. 

Keith steadies himself, now technically in position even if he  _ did  _ fall ass-backwards into it. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine. 

_ -We don’t need no ticket for- _

_ -where we’re ‘bout to go- _

_ -We can get there fast, and- _

_ -we can take it slow- _

Blue bends at the waist to lean in close, successfully punching the air out of Keith’s unsuspecting lungs. And the fact that Keith  _ doesn’t  _ expect it is on him. He’s the one who’s been carefully avoiding watching the hot seat dances. He should have at least an idea of what’s to come, but… Woo, fuck if his pulse isn’t skyrocketing right about now.

_ -We don’t need a car or a train- _

_ -bus or a plane- _

_ -for where we’re ‘bout to go, all we need is you and me- _

It’s when the almost falsetto tones of the incoming hook kick in that Keith starts to really understand what a clusterfuck he’s gotten himself into. Because it’s then that Blue steps forward, a leg on either side of Keith’s lap - grazing but not touching down.  _ -Sex...trip-,  _ the song taunts, and Blue sways his hips just a bit - just a tease - just enough that the allusion to what’s coming next starts to stoke that fire that’s already starting to wash over Keith from the bottom up.

There’s no time to fight it down - no time to cool off before the beat is kicking back in and Blue’s swaying with intent now…

_ -Let’s go all night- _

_ -Let’s go all night- _

...the hem of his shirt dragging up and clenched between his teeth so he can roll his torso invitingly close to Keith’s face.

Keith straightens against the chair, pressing his thighs together and willing down the fucking  _ stupid  _ hard-on that’s threatening to rise to the occasion. He’s supposed to be keeping his shit together, which, admittedly, is hard as fuck when you’ve got the sexiest dancer in the entire place rolling their hips just short of your lap. Even  _ harder,  _ when you had the sexiest dancer’s dick in your mouth 24 hours prior. 

_ -Let’s go, baby back and forth- _

_ -We’ll be falling from the sky, geronimo- _

Blue grins - something Keith’s never been on the receiving end of and holy shit, that’s dangerous. But definitely not as dangerous as how he reaches for the hem of his shirt again, this time pulling it off entirely too slowly. It gives the dim lights above them plenty of time to bathe over every muscle - every plane of smooth dark skin - his shoulders flexing beautifully as he stops the strip just before his arms have freed themselves from his shirt.

Keith swallows thickly, brows furrowing as he makes the mistake of looking up because Blue catches them - must see something that amuses him - because he smirks as he leans forward to loop his arms around the back of Keith’s neck with the shirt.

_ -We can go another round, we can scream some more- _

_ -I’ll be fucking like it’s my job, and I make the dough, oh oh- _

Keith tenses, a shiver running up his spine and his eyelids fluttering at the feeling of warm breath against his ear - the low,  _ hot  _ chuckle…

_ -Let our worlds collide, girl- _

...then the very sudden and very real press and deliberate sway of Blue’s entire body against his-

_ -Show me how you ride, girl- _

-it’s enough to have Keith straightening in desperation. For real this time. Because  _ Blue’s  _ for real this time, breaking from beginner mode to tempt Keith with a taste of what it  _ could  _ be - how he  _ could  _ be moving on him, hips dirty and ass grinding down into Keith’s lap in a sway so devastating that Keith has to physically breathe out the steam gathering in his body because  _ fuck - fuck abort - abort abort abort- _

Ice clinks against glass somewhere both far away and right next to him and Keith snaps back harshly. The lady. The fucking  _ woman.  _ How could Keith  _ possibly  _ have forgotten about the entire reason he’s here in the first place?

He loosens the grip he has on the edge of the chair, tilting his face into his shoulder as Blue lets up, clearly satisfied with the reaction he’s pulled from his prey. But the damage is done. And Keith’s face is so red that he can  _ feel  _ it. And Blue slides his arms back out of his shirt behind Keith and lets it hang over his shoulders so he can get a hand under Keith’s chin, hips still moving slowly to the beat as he tilts Keith’s head back forward...and then in the opposite direction.

It’s for the woman. It’s so she can see his face. 

Keith lets his gaze fall gently off toward the floor as he all but presses his face into the soft comfort of Blue’s shirt. The warmth of it. The subtle mix of fabric softener and Lance’s cologne.

It lulls him into a state of acceptance that he just got his ass handed to him, the music winding down but his pulse still racing five hundred miles a minute. He lifts his head forward at the loss of heat, eyes locking onto the ones already watching him as Blue moves backward, grin pointed, and then winks before disappearing behind the purple curtain.

The woman beside him stirs.

Grabs her drink. 

Leaves her money on the small table by the couch with a satisfied smile.

And then it’s just Keith, mouth still dropped open and chest rising in time with his pounding heartbeat as he stares after Blue’s exit through the curtain.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  - 

 

The first thing he does is make a b-line for the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face probably messes with his foundation, but it’s worth it for that shock to his system that gets his shit right again.

Holy fuck. Holy  _ fuck, _ he thinks, his reflection staring back at him in the smudged mirror like he’s just had some sort of religious experience. 

And then-

_ Holy FUCK. _ His eyes widen comically.

He forgot to pick the money up in the private room.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Keith tries not to let on how thoroughly Blue’s lap dance shook his world - to  _ Blue,  _ especially. It wasn’t even really a full one, if he’s going to get technical here. It was more of a pants-on, hover-handy, virgin lap dance, if anything. Because Blue said he’d take it easy on him and that’s exactly what he did. 

And...yeah.

Keith got his shit rocked by a pants-on, hover-handy, virgin lap dance.

 

* * *

 

Saturday morning comes as a surprise to him. He’s not sure why - Saturday mornings have kinda been a weekly thing for him his entire life. But his eyes flutter open on pure insult, head turning to glance around his room with a scowl like he can’t process what’s happening and why he isn’t still balls-deep in his dirty dream about Lance. 

It cut out at the worst time. They didn’t even get to the junk fondling yet - what the fuck, Saturday morning?

The crash from the kitchen registers as alarming, but not the first occurrence in Keith’s brain. Is  _ that  _ why he’s up before getting down-and-dirty with Dream Lance?

Keith groans softly, rolling out of bed partially because now he’s  _ up  _ up, and partially because the footfalls landing in the kitchen don’t sound the way Shiro’s footfalls sound, which means they’re either getting robbed or there’s company.

Keith’s door creaks on its hinges as he slowly eases down the hallway, eyelids heavy and fingers scratching at his belly as he peers into the kitchen, sunlight whiting out the person’s outline for a moment before focusing.

“Dad,,,?” Keith’s voice is groggy. Thick with sleep and confusion. 

“Keith. Did you put these plates away? They’re so uneven that a couple slid out and broke.”

Keith blinks, fingers halted on his stomach. Seriously? “...why are you here...?” More importantly, why is he here rummaging around in their cupboards and judging his stacking ability?

Keith’s stepdad throws the last shards of broken plate into the garbage can before returning to the sink with his intended glass. “Your brother and I are going to lunch.”

“... _ lunch?”  _ Keith eyes the time on the TV display. 

12:28pm

Oh.

Jesus, he really slept in today.

“If you stack your plates with the largest ones on the bottom, you won’t have this pro-”

“Okay thank you dad, I’ll do it next time.” Keith drones it. He knows he shouldn’t. Knows he’s supposed to be doing his part to shed the air of negativity between the two of them. It’s just…

“Alright, sorry,” Shiro’s moving out of his room and down the hallway without looking, his shirt front halfway tucked in when he collides with Keith’s too-slow reaction time. “Oh,” he puts his hands out, gentle on his shoulders as he sidesteps around where Keith’s planted himself in the hallway opening, “Hey, you wanna come to lunch?”

Keith’s blink is tired. “No.”

“We’re going to that place by the mall.”

“Cool, but no.”

“You sure?”

Keith fixes him with a stare. That kind of silent speaking-without-speaking stare that they’ve gotten down throughout the years. “No thank you.”

_ (Stop asking. I know what you’re doing.) _

It translates itself. Shiro nods, pressing forward and tucking the back of his shirt into his pants and still managing to look cool somehow. It’s annoying. But Keith doesn’t have to contemplate it for long, because then his brother and stepdad are at the door, the used glass waiting in the sink to be washed.

Keith sighs at the sight of it,  Shiro managing a friendly “I’ll be home later - behave!” before shutting the door behind him. 

The lock clicks from the outside.

The footsteps fade away down the hall.

Keith side-eyes Space Jam where she’s sunbathing on the windowsill. 

Snapchat to  _ hahathenwhat _

**playdate?**

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

It takes Keith a solid three minutes to really  _ realize  _ what he’s done after Lance hits him back with an agreement. 

Much like this Saturday morning took him by surprise, he also finds himself surprised by the fact that inviting someone over for a cat playdate means that someone will literally be physically over in the apartment - and in twenty minutes, too. It hits him and the little tightness of panic starts to spread until Keith realizes that the apartment is still squeaky-clean from his and Shiro’s last forced cleaning day. That, and he has time to hop in the shower and get pretty.  _ That,  _ and when Lance does get here, the attention will be on the cats. Keith has to worry about approximately zero entertaining duties. 

So he freshens up and speed-round puts his face on and is just finished straightening up the pillows on the couch when there’s a knock on his door.

Keith glances down to Space Jam for affirmation, who stares back at him with a slow blink, and it’s enough of a confidence boost that he marches himself up to the front door with a little nod to himself, and then opens it on an exhale.

“Heeey!” Lance is as bright and shiny as ever, smile wide and eyes glinting and Keith has to take just a tiny moment for himself.

It’s quick though. “Hey, what’s-” And now he’s just stuck on the image of Mewtew, standing freely beside Lance’s leg and looking absolutely comfortable in the blue harness that stretches around her. That and, of course, the tether linked securely from the top of the harness to Lance’s hand. Keith struggles. “She...has a leash…”

It must not be the first of this kind of reaction, because Lance chuckles good naturedly. “Yeah, she likes to go for walks and I’m too afraid of her being an outside cat, so…”

Keith nods, slowly, because fuck that’s really cute. Why is that so cute? 

Mewtew must pick up on his scent and remember their encounter in her hallway, because she moves forward to weave between Keith’s legs, pulling Lance along by the leash with a surprised little noise. 

She pressing her sides against his shins with a purr, successfully looping her leash around Keith’s feet and causing Lance to hum, “Mewtew, really? Control yourself, girl...” as he squats in front of Keith to start untangling the tether between his legs.   

Keith just stands, knowing his involvement will only complicate matters. Plus it gives him a flattering view when Lance looks up at him, arms winding around and between his knees as he waggles his eyebrows dramatically, “Oh, pardon meee…”

Keith has to snort. Has to laugh. It’s not the first time Lance has been in his lap in the past day and there’s really nothing he can do about it. They aren’t even past the front door yet.

Mewtew takes care of that directly. Finally untangled, she stalks in through the opening with her leash dragging on the floor behind her, leaving Lance to his own devices. 

Keith offers him a hand up. 

He takes it.

“Okay, guess we’re comin’ in,” he smiles.

Keith steps to the side, heart oddly full. “Guess you are.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Space Jam and Mewtew want nothing to do with each other.

It puts kind of a damper on Keith’s whole ‘thank god I don’t have to entertain’ thing. Because he doesn’t know if Lance feels awkward just sitting here on the floor, but it’s starting to get noticeably uncomfortable on his end. 

He pushes to his feet so he can go collect Jam from her sunning spot, answering her mew of protest with a quiet “You’re fine,” as he carries her over to where Lance is sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands out and fingers wiggling in anticipation. “Be social,” he orders, lowering her feet-down into Lance’s lap.

“Pretty giiiiirl,” Lance coos to her softly, eyes sparkling as he helps bring her down under her arms. 

Space Jam refuses to make eye contact, lazily blinking in the other direction every time Lance tilts his head to lovingly look at her.

It’s… Ah. It’s cute too. Keith  _ has  _ to snap it to Pidge. He just  _ has  _ to.

“Tell me all your secrets about Gloves,” Lance murmurs, still determined to form that eye-contact-bond. “Tell me all the embarrassing shit he does when he thinks no one’s watching.”

Keith snorts. “I do  _ no  _ embarrassing shit.”

“Not possible.” He’s still speaking directly to the cat, even though it’s heavily pointed in Keith’s direction. “Everyone does weird stuff when they’re alone, right pretty girl?”

“If that’s the case, I’m sure Mewtew’s scarred for life.” She’s settling into Keith’s lap as he speaks, by the way, demanding a head pat from him. Keith surrenders out of pity. What kind of questionable shit have these eyes seen Lance do?

“I bet he brings a ton of people home now that he’s single, huh,” Lance is teasing now, clearly not able to forge the bond and giving up to focus on messing with Keith instead. “Definitely a heartbreaker, isn’t he? One and done.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Yep you got me. That’s totally something I do.”

Lance grins, bringing Jam’s face down to eye level as he stage whispers, “ _ He’s a pussy-whisperer _ .”

“Gay.”

“ _ He’s a dick-whisperer. Exclusively _ .”

The laughter that bubbles out of Keith surprises him. More than how he just dropped the gay card so bluntly and unapologetically like that. It’s an odd sensation, being both comfortable and insanely  _ un _ comfortable with someone at the same time. 

“Dick-whisperer…” he echoes, shaking his head and scratching Mewtew’s bottom.

Lance shrugs honestly, “I mean, you are…”

“Thanks?”

“Ya know - and don’t take this the wrong way - I’ve gotten a lot of blow jobs in my lifetime, but yours was definitely the best.”

“O-oh...” Keith trips up at that one, “...okay…”  Here comes the blush - a perfect dichotomy of comfort and discomfort. What do you say to that? ‘Thank you for complimenting my dick sucking abilities’? ‘Really the pleasure was all mine’? Keith’s still struggling. “I uh...to be honest a lot of that is kinda...hazy for me…”

“What…”

“The-...when I-...did that.” Nice. Super smooth.

Lance finally lets his gaze drop over to where Keith is sitting, eyebrows furrowing just a touch in disbelief. “For real?”

Keith takes after Jam and avoids the eye contact. Why’d he even bring this up in the first place, now that he thinks about it? He should’ve just left it alone. He remembers more than enough to satisfy himself. Why even nitpick? “Yeah.” 

“Huh. Well, there are ways we can fix that.”

Keith chances a peek, the sunlight doing some unfair things to Lance’s smooth skin. “Fix it…?”

“Yeah.” What the hell is he getting at? “I could just show you.”

The calm confidence is what lures him into thinking it’s something innocent. But then it kicks in, Keith’s fingers tapping nervously. He’s hitting on him. Lance is hitting on him. “Uh…” Offering to get him off. “Or- uh… Or I could just remind myself. With you.”

Keith winces internally. Jesus, how does he manage to trip over his own self so much?

But Lance is grinning at him, either amused with his fluster or the breakneck speed that Keith has turned the offer around and dumped it back onto him. “That could work, yeah.”

Keith nods. “Okay. Um. I mean not now though. Shiro’s gonna be home soon.”

Lance laughs. “Definitely didn’t mean now, dude.”

“Oh. Uh...alright.”

“ _ Fuck _ you’re cute when you’re nervous.”

Lance is admiring him when their eyes meet again, the corner of his mouth turned up fondly, gaze gone soft as he stares up at him. 

It’s a direct blow to Keith’s heart and he has to lash out before it does any permanent damage, a hand flying out to push Lance away and on a path towards the floor.

It’s met with another laugh, this one silly as Lance’s snapback rolls away like a tire from the scene of an accident. Space Jam leaps from his arms as soon as he goes down, trotting over to Keith and nuzzling her way past Mewtew’s already claimed spot on his lap.

They’re finally interacting. But at what cost.

“Pussy whisperer…” Lance mentions fondly from the floor.

Keith wants to bury himself under a pile of cats and never come out with how light his chest feels.

 

* * *

 

Nothing exceptionally exciting happens at work. Keith can say that because he hasn’t gotten pulled into any private rooms to get grinded on yet. The only thing out of the ordinary that happens is the slew of missed calls waiting for him in his jacket when he goes to take a quick breather outside.

It’s not seven this time. Seven is a lot to most people. But Keith is not most people and the relationship he had with Isaac wasn’t most relationships so seven is not a lot for him. 

Fifteen. 

Fifteen is getting there. 

Keith swipes his phone open to check when they were made - if they were rapidfire calls or if there was space in between. Half of them came in a few minutes after Lady A’s opened. The other half were later, when it started to become unrelenting...one after another after another after another. 

Keith tilts his head toward the moonbeams. There’s a chill to the breeze as it sweeps around the building and fans his bangs back over his forehead. Maybe there’s a reason Isaac’s calling. Maybe he’s not even calling to try to get back together, something more important taking priority. What could it be though? 

As if one cue, the buzz against Keith’s fingers activates, the screen lighting up his darkened hiding space alongside the side of the building. 

Speak of the fucking devil.

Keith frowns. 

He just wants to tell him to fuck off.

He can tell him to fuck off, right?

The vibration snaps to a halt as he swipes his thumb across the screen to pick up the call, pulse taking off with it toward the moon.

“Stop  _ fucking  _ calling me-”

_ “Babe- Jesus I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days.” _

Keith’s stomach turns, the familiar voice forcing a wave of emotions that he doesn’t want to deal with right now so he pushes forward - walks that shit off around the side of the building because he has a job to do. A point to make.

“What part of leaving me alone is so fucking hard for you to understand?”

_ “No, I- I wouldn’t call so much if you’d just pick up in the first place-” _

“I  _ told  _ you not to call me. That should’ve given you some sort of hint that I wasn’t gonna pick up-”

_ “You did  _ now.”

“Yeah, because you’re annoying the shit out of me.”

_ “Can you at least let me talk?” _

“I don’t know what the hell you could say that would make me wanna li-”

_ “I love you.”  _ Keith’s boots crunch to a stop in the stones beneath them, something sour and dragging rising in his throat at the low sincerity in Isaac’s voice as he speaks.  _ “I really do love you. And I miss you.” _

Keith swallows. 

Blinks away the burn in his eyes.

“Stop fucking calling me.” He bites it and then slams his thumb against the call-end button, stuffing it back into his pocket so hard a thread pops and fabric tears.

Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck Isaac.

Another gust of chilled breeze sweeps around the building and Keith pushes on once again - just keeps on pushing - until he’s at the front door to the club and it’s swinging out as he’s pushing in and then there are hands on him, gentle but sturdy and stabilizing and-

“Hey, there you-” Lance’s face drops immediately, “What? What’s wrong?”

Because it  _ has  _ to be obvious. It  _ has  _ to leave no room for doubt. The anger in his eyes. The discomfort etched between his brows. 

And Keith just wants to be grounded and pulled back down so he reaches up and grabs a fistful of Lance’s shirt, dragging him until their mouths are crashing together - until he’s backing them away from the sign lighting up the entrance and Lance is stumbling after him, steps just a bit unsure but not unwilling and-

“Jesus,” he breaks away, the slick pop echoing off the brick with the labor in their breath. “What the hell’s going on?”

Keith keeps it tight, the dread still rising un _ less…  _ “Take me to your car,” he breathes out against Lance’s mouth, eyes flicking between it and Lance’s eyes and Lance swallows.

“Uh…” 

“Please.”

“Yeah,” there’s a roughness there - he clears his throat - “Yeah that’s-...that’s fine.”

Except it’s Keith pulling him across the parking lot and not the other way around. It’s Keith wrenching the door open and climbing in back and barely waiting for Lance to close the door behind himself on the other side before moving forward, fists curled tightly in his shirt again.

It has Lance’s hands hovering.  _ Just  _ above Keith’s waist. 

Hesitation.

“Gloves-”

“Keith.”

Lance breaks away again. “What?” And it’s a break that is desperately desperately unwanted because-

“Keith,” he repeats his own name, breath heavy but not as heavy as the sinking feeling in his chest. “Keith- you never call me Keith and I just need you to right now.”

He’s rambling.

He’s losing it.

Lance looks at him like he’s watching something slowly crash and burn inches away from his face without knowing the details. But he nods, lips parted. “Yeah. Yeah okay, Keith.”

Keith’s eyes flutter shut.

Grounding.

“Say it again.”

Silence. 

Panting breath.

Then.

“...okay, Keith…”

It hits and settles and sinks into his bones. Warm. Secure.

Grounding...grounding...grounding.

“...s-...say it again.”

Lance swallows, then slowly reaches up, hand leaving sparks against the side of his face. Thumb brushing. Eyes flickering down. Resting on his lips. So fucking quiet. “Its okay, Keith…”  

It’s different now. 

Concern lulls to sympathy. 

Hesitancy to honesty.

Keith leans into his touch, pulse dull under his eyelids.

Grounding.

“Keith…”

It’s an anxiety attack. He was riding the edge of it. Before the storm. The full brunt. Keith realizes it now, the pent up pressure beneath his eyes ready to overflow.

“Keith-”

“I’m-...” -fuck- “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine-”

“No I-” He’s in Lance’s space. In Lance’s lap. Forcing him against the side of the car door without even realizing it. 

And Lance is watching him very carefully again. “Keith-”

“I need to get back.” He pulls away, giving Lance the space he needs but Lance is moving forward he thinks. “I need to uh-... Shiro probably needs me so I’m gonna- I’m sorry.”

The front seat is hard to press up on his own but he does it - pulls himself out from the back and his wrist out from Lance’s attempt - “Hey,  _ wait-”  _ and the breeze is cooler on his skin than it was before the call. Before the storm. He’s clipped the edge of it without falling in and he keeps pushing forward, farther and farther from the parking lot and the scene of the accident and the hidden way Lance’s hand comes to rest over his eyes and then through his hair in the back seat of his car, his chest falling in a slow exhale.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith sleeps straight through to the afternoon.

Two in the afternoon, to be exact. 

He hasn’t had a full on anxiety attack for a while now and the fact that he dodged it by a hair is not lost on him. Neither is the fact that he didn’t do it alone.

**sorry for freaking out on you last night**

He sends it to Lance. A Snapchat message. Because it’s lame but it’s the only line of communication he has. He curls up in tousled bedsheets...checks his to-do list on his phone...lets his heavy eyelids flutter back shut for maybe round two of sleep when he gets Lance’s reply.

Snapchat from  _ hahathenwhat _

_ dude its cool u dont have to apologize  _

Keith rereads it more times than necessary. Of course he’d say that. Even if it isn’t true.

**let me make it up to you?**

He has no plans. No ideas. Just guilt so far, and that’s all he needs at this step anyway.

_ it really is cool dont worry about it _

Keith blinks. 

O-...Oh.

Did he just get brushed off? He just got brushed off. So he  _ did  _ freak him out last night, then. Exactly as he thought.

Space Jam saunters in to make herself comfortable on Keith’s chest, unaware of the cloud of guilt growing thicker and thicker over her owner’s brainspace.

Snapchat from  _ hahathenwhat _

_ o wait sorry im zonin i totally read that the wrong way _

_ u can def make it up to me _

_ if it involves food lol _

Another blink.

Oh.

Okay.

Maybe Keith  _ didn’t  _ get brushed off. Maybe both of their brains aren’t exactly fully online today. 

He waits an appropriate minute or so before thumbing in his response. 

**food. i dont have to cook it do i**

_ r u a good cook _

**no**

_ lol then no _

_ i will accept a full body massage in place of cooking tho _

Keith chuckles shortly to himself. 

**youd like that**

_ u kno i would ;) _

It lights that little spark again. The spark that is apparently so easy to light around Lance. Keith rolls over onto his back, stretched out and Sunday-afternoon-lazy as a smile dances across his face for the first time since last night.

**dinner and a massage and a blowjob**

_ oo careful there i might just ask u to marry me _

Keith’s heart flutters under his shirt, his smile widening into something hard to control. 

God… 

**i dont marry people i havent slept with**

It’s a little much but he’s feeling confident. Especially when Lance’s reply comes in right away.

_ o well i have some awesome news for u  _

Okay. He rolls over. Okay, this is getting dangerous. It’s still early in the afternoon and he hasn’t even gotten out of bed yet. 

Space Jam recollects herself at his feet. A signal for Keith to wrap things up.

**your place or mine**

Ahh-

**for food i mean**

Not for fucking. Flirting about it over Snapchat is one thing but actually doing it and doing it today is just uh-...

_ hunks at his sisters for the night _

**so your place then**

_ ya i mean also not super hyped about six killing me for flirting w his baby bro _

Keith chuckles. 

**flirting huh**

_ lol pretty sure i was promised a blowjob?  _

_ but then again ur messages disappeared so _

_ ~~who knows~~ _

Keith grins.

**guess we’ll just have to wait and see tonight then**

_ ;) _

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Keith arrives at 9F with two bags from the noodle shop and one of his best put together outfits so far. His shirt billows when he moves through the door and Lance, air conditioning creeping past the dark fabric and up his sides and stomach and chest.   
  
"Decided on Noodles," he says as a means of a greeting, the plastic bags crinkling in his hold as he heads for the kitchen like he's been here a thousand times and not, in fact, only two. "I didn't know what you'd want, and it's too hard to ask over Snapchat, so-" the sudden feeling of his phone being slipped out of his back pocket has him pausing, "What're you doing?"   
  
When he turns to check, Lance is sliding open his phone's lock screen and typing something and Keith has a momentary sense of panic - wonders what he currently has as his screen picture and if it's embarrassing. But, "Number," Lance explains calmly. And when he finishes up, he slides the phone back into Keith's back pocket, and then picks up his pace to peer curiously into the bags now sitting on the counter.   
  
Keith takes a second to check. Not because he doesn't trust him, but because his brain is maybe a little interested in the fact that he now has Lance's phone number. Like his real life one. Not just Snapchat.   
  
"Mewtew, your boyfriend's here," Lance calls out, hands dipping in to fish out the plastic bowls of prepared pasta. "And he brought fooooood..."   
  
Keith huffs a laugh. "Yeah that'll be $8.50, by the way."   
  
He doesn't mean it. They both know it.

Lance lolls his head over toward him anyway, "I dunno dude, that's pretty steep. I don't have that kinda money."   
  
"Yeah, I'm sure you blew that hundred on something else already."   
  
"You sure I can't pay you some other way?"   
  
Keith rolls his eyes, but the grin on his face is unmistakable. "Yeah, you can stop before you start sounding like the first five minutes of something off Pornhub."   
  
"Five minutes?" Lance is outraged - fake, of course, as he turns to pin Keith with a look. "What kinda porn you watchin', dude?"   
  
Keith takes a container from him. None. He’s not watching any porn. Is that not the usual amount of time for the intro stuff? "What, too long?" He follows Lance over to the couch.    
  
It’s already dipping as Lance crashes down onto it. "Waaay too long. You know my distracted ass can't sit through five minutes of anything."   
  
Keith joins him. “You  _ do  _ remind me of some of the afterschool kids sometimes. No offense.”

The plastic lid pops off of Lance’s bowl, steam rising toward his face as he leans in to smell it before sticking his fork in. “Not offended. M’sure you’ve got a  _ shit  _ ton of ADHD kids there.” He scoops a penne noodle into his mouth with a smile. “S’why you can deal with me so easily probably.”

Keith snorts. “Who the hell said it was easy to deal with you?”

It rolls off his tongue so fast and so easily that he doesn’t even consider the possibility of Lance’s smile faltering as a result of it. Until it does. Until the little curve of his lips drops into something softly  _ less,  _ his gaze dropping into his bowl.

Keith watches it happen from the other side of the couch. But his frown is more noticeable. “You know I’m kidding, right?” he assures, and suddenly it’s very  _ very  _ important to him that Lance knows that. “Hey, I’m just joking.”

The second prod is enough to get Lance laughing through his nose, “Y-yeah dude, I know,” but his smile is forced. As is the little knee nudge he presses to the outside of Keith’s thigh. 

It’s very forced. Even Keith can tell.  He definitely struck a nerve there.

“Uh...hey, you wanna see something funny?” Time for a distraction then, he decides, and he’s pulling his phone out once again.

Lance is just as hype for a distraction it seems, because he leans his head over to watch as Keith starts scrolling through his apps. “Is this cat-related?”

“It’s  _ you- _ related, actually.” 

Tumblr. Search bar.

_ “Me- _ related?”

“Yep. You aware that you have Tumblr fangirls?” 

And with that, the Blue Rider tag pops up onto the screen and Keith hands it over - well, moreso leans his phone over so Lance can see, but Lance ends up taking it and holding it with his free hand. But that works too.

“No way,” his eyes are lighting up, an honest smile forming where Keith had been aiming for as he scrolls. “No fuckin’ way, that’s hilarious.”

“They’re  _ reeeeally  _ into you, man.”

Lance thumb is scrolling a mile a minute. “This is amazing.” Can he even read that fast? “I wonder if I know who they are.”

Keith settles back, proud of his work and ready to start on his own dinner now. “Probably.”

Mewtew saunters out of the hallway to make her presence known - a quick purr as she hops onto the back of the couch to rub her body long-ways against Keith’s neck. 

“Oh man - you’re on here too, dude.”

Lance’s amused little leer is enough to get Keith’s fake interest rising. “Am I?” He totally knows he is. He’s just tried to forget it ever since his likeness started surfacing during his weekly social media searches for Allura. 

“ _ ‘Baby Boi’ _ ,” Lance snorts, then mumbles through a bite of pasta. “What’s their obsession with figuring out what you are?” 

“What do you mean…”

“Are you even Korean?”

“Yeah.”

His phone drops into Lance’s lap as the eye contact suddenly returns in full. “Wait, really?”

Keith’s brows furrow. “Yes?”

“That’s awesome. Are you fluent at all?”

“If this is you asking if I can understand your terrible k-pop lyrics, the answer is no.”

Lance makes a slightly disappointed ‘ahh’ sound, but then goes back to scrolling through the posts. 

Mewtew headbutts the back of Keith’s skull. “Wouldn’t be polite if I didn’t also ask your origin story…”

It pulls this tiny chuckle from Lance. “Origin story, that’s good.”

“And?”

“Grandparents are Cuban.”

“Cuban…” Keith consults the clump of parmesan cheese clinging to a noodle. “So that’s…”

“Spanish, sí. And no, I’m not gonna speak it for you.”

Keith laughs. “I mean, technically you just did, but no, I wasn’t gonna ask.”

The shift from discomfort to ease is flawless, and Keith has to give himself a mental pat on the back, because everyone knows he’s more of a social situation manhandler than a social situation steerer. 

“Hey look,” Lance hums, comfortably handing the phone back over with a text post centered.

Keith reads over it.

_ “ok so anyone notice how frequently k-bb’s been on blue’s snap story lately?” _

_ “Yes hello i have. do we dare.” _

_ “its so cute theyre so cute omg” _

Keith stalls. Reads it over again. Well,  _ that’s  _ a new one. He hasn’t seen  _ that  _ one yet. “Huh…” The grin Lance is sending him when he looks over is mischievous. “What?”

“We should mess with them.”

“We should?”

“Mhm.”

It sounds like not a great idea at the start, but that grin is pulling him in. Pulling him down. “What’re you thinking?”

And that’s when Lance’s phone is being whipped out, their faces framed and morphing with a slew of filters as Lance thumbs through them. 

Oh. Okay, this is doable. For sure.

They settle for the flower crown filter. Keith isn’t sure why, but he’s not exactly complaining because they  _ do  _ look really good with it - Lance especially, of course.

He smiles for the camera, more reserved than Lance’s tongue-out cheesin’-it. But they look good, Keith thinks he mentioned. And Lance types in a few flower emojis and a peace sign and then sends it off to Blue’s snap story.

Keith settles back into his own space, his cheek tingling just a little from where they had pressed together to fit into the picture. Does he dare ask Pidge to go screenshot that for him? He could. He shouldn’t though. He can at least wait until more of the 24 hour period has expired. 

He takes a bite of pasta instead.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

They end up smoking a bowl. Not because they need it to diffuse any sort of tension, but because Keith finds himself still on the couch two hours later, being subjected to yet another round of anime attempts. 

This show, admittedly, is a lot better than the vampire one. There’s shooting and angst and people are like...measured by the pureness of their colors or something and he doesn’t 100% understand it but it’s okay. It’s pretty good. He refuses to tell Lance though. 

Another hour passes and they pack another bowl and Keith is roaming around the room before he realizes what he’s doing. He looks over the video games again. Tries to get out onto the little balcony but can’t figure out the lock latch. Settles with perching himself on top of the kitchen counter where Lance can still see him, warm colors washing over him from the TV in the dark living room.

It’s unclear why sitting on counter space is so enjoyable. Maybe because counter space is not made for sitting on, so it’s a matter of rebellion. Either way, Lance fires off another snap to Blue’s story - a far off capture of Keith not paying attention from his spot.  _ look at this weird cat i found in my kitchen _

The episode that neither of them are paying attention to ends. The credits paint the living room bright blue, but Lance is watching him from the couch, eyelids heavy. Keith pretends not to notice but that doesn’t last very long. The high in his brain has him floating - stretching - situating himself into an inviting position that he hopes will draw Lance closer without needing to say anything.

“Whatchya thinkin’ about over there?” comes his voice, just barely making it into the kitchen.

Keith leans back on his hands, the hem of his shirt rising purposely. “...stuff…”

Lance smiles. “What  _ kinda  _ stuff?”

But Keith keeps silent. Keeps that element of mystery. Keeps his eyes on Lance as he rises from the couch to slowly make his way over from the living room. Anticipation creeps into Keith’s muscles - makes them tense - makes him stretch to arch his back a little as Lance grows closer.

“You never told me,” he says, eyeing the way Lance’s soft long-sleeve hugs the slope from broad shoulders to thin waist.

“Told you what?”

“Who has a crush on me.” 

They had discussed it. Briefly. More like, Lance had mentioned it in passing and then dropped it and then they made out a little. But.

Lance grins, and he could stop at the entrance to the kitchen but he keeps moving - keeps forward until he’s stepping between Keith’s parted knees. Closer than necessary. “Hmm...you sure you wanna know?” he asks, but not before pressing in to breathe against Keith’s neck.

It’s not sudden at all but it has Keith reacting regardless, the shiver causing him to press his neck into his shoulder with a tiny sensitive hum. It’s enough to get Lance to smile against him, gently nosing his way back in until Keith’s shoulder drops, the shiver returning. “I wanna know.”

“Might make it weird...” His breath is so warm. It almost distracts from the fingers that glide feather-light down the insides of Keith’s wrists.

Almost.

“I wanna _know_ …”

Lance moves his mouth upward, warmth traveling up the side of Keith’s neck but never touching down. Teasing. Tempting. Then: “Gizmo.”

Keith’s eyes open. “What?”

“It’s Gizmo.”

And thank god Lance is still up in his business, because this could’ve been a huge bummer. “Hm.”

“What,” he leans back, eyes flicking from Keith’s mouth up to his eyes. Keeping it tight. “You don’t think he’s hot?”

Keith licks his lips. It’s not that. That particular dancer isn’t bad-looking in the slightest. To be honest, he's actually more Keith's style than Lance is. It’s just... “He’d be hotter if his name wasn’t Gizmo.”

Lance chuckles quietly, leaning in for what Keith reads as a kiss until he follows through to drop back down to his neck again. It raises the lump in Keith’s throat, his eyes fluttering shut as he murmurs just short of touching again, “He likes you.”

“Mm…”

_ “Reeeally  _ wants to fuck you…” 

Keith’s pulse picks up, back straightening under the warm hand that smoothes over the small of it. He doesn’t know what to say...is just hazy enough that it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the point of contact. “Lance…?”

“Hmm?” Just barely-there vibration.

“Are we uh…” his toes curl, “Are we friends…?”

There’s no immediate response, which Keith expects as soon as the out of place question leaves his mouth. He doesn’t know why but his brain  _ really  _ wanted him to ask that.  _ Really  _ needs to know the answer right this second.

He presses to reason. “Because, you know…” - Lance licks his lips - Keith can almost feel it - “all we do is get high and make out…” His back stretches impossibly straighter with the hand on his hip. “Not that I have a problem with that- I just…” he breathes out - fuck - “wanna know if we’re friends or not…”

It’s a weird, pieced together stream of consciousness, but it must be understandable enough because Lance comes to settle in front of him again - to share the space between them - to brush their lips together just the slightest as he smiles, “Do you  _ wanna  _ be friends?”

Keith steadies himself. “...yeah?”

Another smile. “...'kay cool. ‘Cause I already thought we were this whole time.”

It’s reassuring. Reassuring in the weird sort of way that their friendship has been solidified in a dark kitchen, with Lance between his legs, Keith dipping forward to slot their lips together. Solidified, with Lance’s hands dropping down to grab under Keith’s thighs and pull him closer, Keith’s ass sliding against the counter until he’s snugly pressed to Lance’s waist.

He tilts his head so Lance can lean back in to nose against the side of his neck again, mouth finally opening to press wetly along the skin there. It’s the gratification after suffering through the tease, and Keith has to admit that it makes it that much better - that much more satisfying, his lips parting and eyes fluttering closed again as teeth graze under his earlobe. 

Lance knows what he’s doing. Smirks into it. Slides his hands under Keith’s top and up his sides until the gasp that he receives isn’t the one he was probably looking for.

He pulls his hand away just as the pain blooms angrily beneath his fingers, Keith desperate to bite it down but-

“What’s the deal,” Lance’s voice is lowered...curious, “you hurt or somethin’?”

The denial is on the tip of Keith’s tongue - ready to be fired off - but he can’t get it out before Lance is gently pulling the side of his shirt up, flowing fabric passing over his ribs.

Keith blinks. Hazy. Stomach turning sour. He knew he should’ve used cover-up tonight.

“Jesus, mami,” Lance frowns, eyes refusing to lift from the bruise still purpling along the curve of Keith’s ribcage. “The hell did you do?”

“Nothing,” he assures, moving to push Lance’s hand and therefore his shirt back down, but Lance is adamant - won’t move. “Nothing, I-...” scramble- “-the kids got a little crazy at afterschool last week.”

He needs to say it with more conviction but his stomach hurts. And bad thoughts are threatening to trickle back into his brain. And Lance is slowly glancing up at him with this look that doesn’t seem  _ totally  _ convinced. 

Why didn’t he just use cover-up? Why didn’t he just take the extra precaution when he knew there was a good chance something even slightly sexual was going to be happening tonight? It’s almost like… No. Why the hell would he subconsciously want Lance to-

Keith inhales sharply, brows furrowing at the feeling of soft lips touching down, ever so lightly against his tender skin. 

“Hurt?” Lance breathes out quietly - almost a whisper. And he’s looking up at him, waiting for Keith to shake his head before pressing another soft kiss to him.

And Keith…

Keith doesn’t-…

He doesn’t know how-...

“Don’t-...do that…”

But his tone is unconvincing. Makes Lance glance up at him. “Why not?”

And Keith can’t tell him why. Doesn’t really know why himself. Is sick of Isaac-related things getting in the way and bringing down the mood when all he wants is to be happy.

“Because,” he frames Lance’s face with his hands and guides him back up, his shirt falling over his stomach and their mouths closing in, “I wanna suck you off.”

Lance hesitates, arms planted on the edge of the counter and framing Keith’s hips. But then he grins - a dirty half-one - and his voice drops into that mischievous tone that Keith wants to hear more of. “Yeah?”

Keith nods, wetting his lips. “Mhm.”

And it’s all he has to say to redirect - to get their makeout session fired back up - to tempt Lance into pulling Keith’s legs around his waist so he can tug him up from the counter and carry him into the living room, hazy light still pouring from the TV.

They crash down onto the couch - Lance first, Keith in his lap - and no time is wasted before Keith eases his way down onto the floor. He spreads Lance’s legs and unzips his jeans and his heart is still tight but getting looser - getting calmer  _ somehow, _ because this level of calm goes against all previous experiences with their sexual situations.

But Keith’s rolling with it - not complaining in the slightest - smirking up at Lance when he finally pulls his dick out, pleased with the level of arousal he’s already sporting. 

“You act like making out with someone as hot as you  _ shouldn’t  _ get me hard,” Lance says. 

And Keith can’t really tell if it’s a joke or honest or  _ whatever,  _ so he just wets his lips, giving the head of Lance’s cock a little lick before swallowing him down.

Lance breathes out slowly. Lets his eyes close before seeming to remind himself that he wants to watch. And if he wants to watch, Keith guesses he should give him a show, right?

“Fuck, mami…” he murmurs, tone heavy as Keith hollows his cheeks, both hands supporting himself on Lance’s hips as he bobs his head. 

He changes directions...brings a hand down to grip at the base...swirls his tongue around the length of his cock and then the head. It’s dirty and hot and he flattens his tongue to lick up slowly, eyes half lidded as they lock onto Lance’s.

“Shit…” another positive affirmation, “How the fuck are you so good at this…”

Practice. That’s how. But Keith doesn’t say it, mouth otherwise occupied as Lance reaches down to brush his thumb over his bottom lip. Keith lets his lips part, hand working a steady pace next to his face as Lance’s thumb dips in a little. Keith bites it. Gently. Wraps his lips around it and teases the tip with his tongue. 

It’s both exciting and terrifying how much Lance likes to watch. It makes Keith bring his A-game, but that’s not exactly a bad thing. And judging by the way Lance sucks his bottom lip in with his teeth, it’s not exactly a bad thing for him either.

It’s what gets him so close so quickly, his hips starting to rock forward a little as Keith bobs his head and sucks him down like it’s his fucking job. Because it is. For right now at least. And there’s no doubt he’s giving Lance what he wants because Lance’s head tips back, his lips pressing into a thin line and then dropping open as he comes. 

And isn’t  _ that  _ a noise that Keith wouldn’t mind hearing more often than he does. Because  _ shit  _ is it hot. Even hotter than the inexplicably arousing face Lance makes when he orgasms. Keith can feel it all the way down to his toes, and when he’s done swallowing, he climbs his way back up into Lance’s lap.

Lance picks his head up to meet him with a grin when Keith finally settles, and Keith knows it’s bad etiquette to kiss someone when they came in your mouth thirty seconds ago, so he just returns the grin, tucking Lance back into his pants without a word.

Until Lance’s fingers hook into the waist of Keith’s jeans.

“Oh- uh…” his hands drop down onto Lance’s before he can think of a cooler way. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Lance insists.

But Keith’s heart is spiking - is laughing it off - literally pulling Lance’s hands off of him and settling them on his hips instead. Like he should’ve done in the first place instead of panicking. “It’s okay. Really.” 

Lance’s grin morphs into something forced again. Uncertain but still trying to stay positive. “I know I’m not as good as you but trust me, I’ve sucked enough dick to know what I’m doing-”

“That’s not it.” Keith’s pulse has settled. Now it’s just the uncomfortable itch beneath his skin. “I don’t think you’d be bad. I’m sure you’re…” he searches for the right word. Can’t find it. Lance’s forced smile has fallen completely at this point anyway. “I just wanted to do that for you. So...there.”

Wow, he’s smooth. 

A real player.

Lance eyes him over, and then shrugs. “Up to you, I guess.”

Yes. It’s up to Keith if he wants Lance to blow him or not. And he does. Don’t get him wrong. It’s just.

“Another time, perhaps,” he hears himself rattle off in this weird, out-of-place royal accent that he has absolutely  _ no  _ idea why he adopts, but it’s dumb and horrifically embarrassing and it’s got Lance collapsing into a pile of laughter, his forehead coming down to support himself on Keith’s shoulder.

And Keith just-...

Wow.  ‘Another time, perhaps’? Seriously?

“Oh my god, Gloves!”

“Jesus…”

“What the fuck was that?”

“Clearly I’ve been around you too much.”

“I’ve never done that accent in my entire life - I swear to god!”

“I’m gonna see myself out.”

The back and forth continues on for a good five minutes, Keith trapped in Lance’s lap and the possibility of living his weirdness down slowly slipping from his grasp. 

At least it’s the weird accent and not the other thing.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Keith’s head hits the pillow at 3:27 in the morning because he didn’t wanna leave and Lance never tried to kick him out. 

It’s a problem. He’s never stayed at someone’s place hours longer than originally intended before. But then again, he’s never hung out with someone like Lance before. Someone who keeps conversation flowing with zero effort. Someone who actually listens to Keith when he talks about dumb shit he finds interesting. Someone who fills out a sweater so nicely that Keith wants to run his hands over his muscles and under the fabric and wrap himself up in the warmth.  _ He’s never hung out with someone like Lance before. _

The incoming call from Isaac would light up his room if Keith wasn’t already on his phone, pulling up the new number in his contacts with a little flutter in his chest.

He declines the call. Smiles at the little fire emojis Lance put after his name when he’d entered his number. 

**this is me btw** he sends, knowing it’s late but also knowing that it’s protocol to return the favor during the number swap.

The quickness of Lance’s response shows he hasn’t gone to sleep yet either.

_ ur wifes upset u left _

Keith grins, blankets up to his nose as he types back.

**tell her i’ll be over again soon**

_ she wants to know how soon _

**whenever her owner decides he wants me over too**

There’s a pause in the response time, and Keith uses it to try to come to grips with the fact that he actually has Lance’s number. If you would’ve told him a month and a half ago that he would be late-night texting with Blue, he would’ve laughed in your face. 

_ u can come over whenever u want mami _

_ u know that _

Keith’s chest dips. He resists the urge to blush like an idiot. 

**k i’ll be over at 6:00 tomorrow morning**

It’s three hours from now and it’s a joke. Keith hopes it translates.

Lance’s response makes him simultaneously groan and smile so hard his face hurts.

_ another time perhaps~ _

 

* * *

 


	7. Alone Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (bumped the chapter number up one because i cant control my own writing)

Hindsight is 20/20.

There are things that happened between Keith and Isaac that aren’t normal. To the outside world. But their relationship wasn’t ‘the outside world’ and once something happens enough, it becomes normal. No matter what it is. No matter what is said.

Like his hair.

Keith’s hair has always been long. Always. Why would he want to cut it if that’s the way it’s always been? Plus, Isaac _loves_ his hair the way that it is. Tells him so all the time. Laces his fingers through it when Keith is giving him head. And he loves it and it’s the way it’s always been, so why would Keith change it?

Because Keith wants to. That’s why.

But Isaac doesn’t want him to.

So he doesn’t.

And he hasn’t.

And hindsight is 20/20.

 

* * *

 

 “Man, you came in from Pidge’s super late last night.” Shiro’s on the couch, coffee mug in hand, the last rays of the morning sun streaming in through the open window. “Don’t tell me you guys binge-played again.”

Keith’s dragging but he’s awake. The breeze coming in is oddly refreshing - would be even more refreshing if he _had_ been binge-playing Super Mario 64 with Pidge last night, and not actually getting busy with Lance instead.

It was a tiny lie.

Keith is allowed to tell tiny lies.

“Sorry, tried to be quiet…” He nudges his brother’s legs off so he can sink down onto the other side of the couch, his head draping over the back of it as he lets his eyes close again. “Where’s Jam?”

“Around… I dunno…”

They sit in comfortable silence… Breathe calmly in their own space and kind of just pleasantly exist...

Space Jam strolls out from Shiro’s room about an hour later, tail lifted elegantly as she saunters over to join them in the sun.

It’s about the same time Isaac texts him, his phone buzzing on the couch’s arm.

_can we talk sometime today please_

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Keith ignores it.

Looks cute and rakes in tips at work.

Blows Blue in the back of his car because that’s a thing now.

When he gets home - 2:43am - he’s gotten several more texts that he’d opted to ignore until now.

_can you call me_

_im not trying to make you mad_

_please call me when you get off work it's important_

Keith stares at them, his screen too bright in his dark bedroom even on the lowest brightness setting.

**im blocking your number**

The response is immediate. Worryingly immediate.

_wait_

_you have shit over here still_

Keith sighs, weight heavy in his bed as he stares up at his ceiling. He does. He does still have shit at Isaac’s.

**i dont want it**

_what about your clothes? your bags here too_

**do whatever i dont want it**

He does, though. He does want it. But not so badly that he’d risk seeing Isaac again. Not after what happened. Not with what _could_ happen.

_i cant do this over text. can you call me?_

A gross knot twists in Keith’s chest.

**no**

_please?_

**no im going to sleep**

_if you dont call me i’ll call you and you’ll get mad_

Keith huffs, eyes closing. He’s already mad. Just the fact that they’re talking, given the fact that he was pretty clear about the end of their communication, has him madder than Isaac probably understands.

**im blocking your number**

_-Incoming call…-_

Fuck.

The constant vibration has Keith pressing the back of his head into his pillow in frustration. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. He should’ve blocked him a long time ago.

One more. One more time and then it’ll be over.

“I don’t want anything,” he snaps as a means of an answer to the call. “Whatever of mine is over there, just throw it out or donate it or something - I really don’t give a shit.”

_“Your laptop charger’s in your bag, though. I can bring it to you if you w-”_

“No,” no fucking way. Keith knows what this is. “I just said I don’t want it.”

_“It’s...your charger-”_

“I’ll buy a new one.”

_“You honestly don’t wanna see me that bad?”_

Keith has to pause for a second. Can’t believe his ears. He sits up. “Are you fucking serious?”

_“Babe-”_

“You’re the last person I wanna see. I don’t even wanna be _talking_ to you right now.”

The rustling on the other line is soft. Fades in and out in a breath. _“See, I told you you’d be mad if I had to call you instead.”_

And Keith...holy _shit_ can Keith feel the raw anger rising high in his core. The disbelief. He takes a breath to steady himself in the dark, but it’s not enough. “Are you-... Do you honestly think _that’s_ why I’m mad?”

Isaac’s response doesn’t come quickly - isn’t inspired to move at lightning speed with the threat of disconnection this time.

It gives Keith the opening to breathe. To think. To just fucking-...get his shit together for one goddamn second.

The floorboards creak as he brings himself over to the window...cracks it open a little...lets the breeze breathe some sense of calm in him, even if it’s small.

When Isaac speaks again, it’s with a quieter tone.

_“I’m headed to Portland for a couple weeks…”_

The breeze has cut down Keith’s attitude. In his voice, at least. “What’s in Portland…?”

 _“Marc.”_ The opportunity to express displeasure is immediately taken away. _“I won’t be around, which is obviously what you want, but I have a favor to ask.”_

Keith scoffs, but it’s soft. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re definitely in a position to ask for those.”

_“Can you please just do something for me?”_

The window ledge is just wide enough to lean against. He’s not making any promises. “What.”

 _“When I’m gone, just take a second, okay Keith? Realize what it’s actually like not being together. Because you always made noise about wanting to break up, but I don’t think you actually get it.”_ Isaac pauses then, the line going silent as his words sink in - heavy and rooted. _“Think about how different it is being by yourself.”_

Keith swallows, not realizing the lump in his throat until it’s threatening the burn in his eyes. He nods, to himself because Isaac can’t see him - can’t see him blink back the glossiness. But he can hear him. “I won’t _be_ by myself.”

And then he hangs up on him.

And shuts his phone all the way off.

 

* * *

 

 

Drugs. They make the world go ‘round. And Keith’s world go ‘round. And around. And around.

Until they run out.

It’s how Keith finds himself at a house party, lights-out and weed-strong and he’s following behind Hunk as the bass thumps against his ribcage. Past people. Lots of people. Then downstairs. Basement-downstairs.

It’s less crowded but the smell of pot is mind-numbing - a fucking wall that hits Keith so hard that his eyebrows raise and he actually tries to blink it out of his eyes.

He’s used to a quiet pickup - him and Isaac and three or four other people max.

It’s a new experience for him.

Not for the other two though.

“Figured you’d be around soon.”

The girl who stands from the circle of people lounging around on couches is all at once attractive, intriguing, and intimidating. She moves from the formation to lazily start up some sort of secret handshake with Hunk, then forward to wrap around Lance’s shoulder in a half-hug.

“Hey there, hot stuff.”

Lance grins, “Hey,” hand low on her back, even when he turns to where Keith’s kind of just taking everything in. “This is Keith,” he says, then, with a nod. “Keith - Nyma.”

The introduction is lax.

Nyma flips dark dreads over her shoulder, calculating eyes panning.

She nods.

Keith nods.

The circle opens up in permission to join.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Nyma is Lance’s hookup. It doesn’t take very long for Keith to make the mental connections, his natural anxiety of all things new and social promised relief by the joint slowly making its way around the circle.

Lance’s knee bumps against him on the couch, but his attention’s already reserved for his dealer beside him.

Keith watches, the muffle of the music upstairs making it difficult to hear what they’re talking about.

They’ve definitely slept together. Lance and Nyma. He doesn’t have much more than their ease around each other to go off of, but Keith would bet money on it. And why shouldn’t they have? Nyma’s gorgeous - long dreadlocks - high cheekbones and pretty skin that’s darker than Lance’s - a sense of confidence that other people would kill for. She’s the full package. And it’s not news to anyone that Lance is just as gorgeous, so why _wouldn’t_ they have slept together? Or _sleep_ together - presently?

“...’ey.”

Keith focuses back in, the joint now in the hand of the girl next to him.

Oh.

He was zoning.

“Thanks.”

He takes the joint. Takes the hit. Takes a second to tell himself to chill when Lance doesn’t immediately respond to his attempt at passing it to him. There’s no need to get hurt feelings over being accidentally ignored. Keith probably just didn’t make it obvious enough.

Lance takes it after Keith’s second try. Doesn’t look, but takes it.

Keith doesn’t realize he’s slid over a little bit on the couch until their thighs are pressing together with purpose.

Chill.

The joint makes its way around four more times when they finally pick themselves up from the circle, Lance’s back pocket bulging a bit from the pickup. They’re up the stairs and back into the hallway to the living room before Keith realizes Hunk’s still in the basement. He stayed. And Keith’s just hazy enough that wait- Was...was _he_ supposed to stay too? Lance got up, so he just kind of...followed after him? Like...a puppy?

Keith stops in his tracks.

Wait.

“What's up.” Lance has turned further down the hallway, shadowed by the darkness and finally catching onto the fact that he's not being followed anymore. “Gloves-”

“Uh, just gimme a minute,” Keith fronts, peering down at his phone as an excuse to put some distance between them. To roll off the clingy vibe. “I'll catch up.”

The corners of Lance’s mouth curve downward for a breath before he’s shrugging - nodding - leaning to take something in each hand from the small table next to him.

Keith glances down when one’s offered to him.

“What is it.”

Lance brings the closest plastic shot glass up to his nose, it wrinkling cutely as he gives a quick whiff. “Vodka, m’pretty sure.”

Keith’s face lights up. And it’s not from his phone. “I love vodka.”

“Then take mine too.”

It’s an honest offer, but Keith gestures it away, “M’good,” and then plucks the tiny glass from him and knocks it back with about as much effort as it takes to re-swipe his phone back open.

He doesn’t notice the little blink of observation he receives before Lance finally downs his own shot too, his attention drawn instead to where he now unfortunately no longer has to pretend someone’s texted him.

_you still up?_

“I’unno where I’ll be.”

Keith glances back up, the plastic shot glass taken from him as Lance stacks them together. He nods at him. “I’ll find you.”

And Lance returns it before turning back toward the opening of the hallway, body twisting to move around the girl in fishnets who’s walking the opposite direction.

Keith’s throat is still burning from the vodka when he opens Isaac’s message to respond.

**arent u suposed to be g one**

Oops.

Autocorrect, leaving him out to dry.

 _i’m on my way now_ (It’s amazing, the distinct brand of dread that that phrase pulls up in Keith’s stomach. Even when it means something different now.) _you’re out aren’t you_

Keith clears his throat, eyes blinking to try and focus up the small letters as he types. **none of your busness**

_you’re spelling shit wrong_

_which means you’re out and definitely not sober_

Keith rolls his eyes. Okay. This was a good pretend distraction to distance himself a little bit. And now he’s done.

**ok bye fuck off to portland**

He makes sure to nail that one, spelling wise - every single word - and then slides his phone back into the waistband of his leggings so he can push through towards the opening in the hallway.

The dark living room is more cramped than it was when they got here - lots and lots and lots of people chasing after a high that’s either hit or about to. Keith scans the moving bodies for Lance but only a little. Just a quick glance. Because everyone’s kind of morphing together for some reason and he can’t make out the differences in faces as well as he’d like to.

So he skirts the outside, blinking hard again at the dull buzz at the base of his skull as he walks - in whatever direction he’s walking in - until the realization that he’s walking towards the front door slowly circles around again in his head.

Oh… Wait no... He needs to stay inside…

Unless Lance is outside...?

No, Lance’s wouldn’t be outside… He’d be where the music is… This is exactly like something he’d dance to…

...right?

Is it...weird that Keith knows that…?

No…

...right…?

His phone buzzes. Back of his brain buzzes.

That shot wasn’t just a shot.

Keith pulls himself back from the door and loses time between the entrance and the wall. _This_ wall. The one that has the projector shining onto it and-... Moving shit. It’s Rihanna, right? Yeah it’s Rihanna. The room music isn’t Rihanna but it’s a Rihanna music video for sure.

Keith blinks. Heavy eyelids. He forces himself to close his mouth where he vaguely realizes it’s been hanging open as he watches the projection move. Fading faces. Fading green and blue and turning camera angles.

He knows the video but can’t for the life of him remember what song it’s for...

...another buzz...

...more in his brain...

He blinks it back…never really opens his eyes again…

...okay...

...he’ll find Lance in a sec...

“Ohhhh, I love this video…”

The voice crops up next to him. High in register. Silky in his head.

Keith lets his eyes open. Rihanna’s perched on her throne...sunglasses...bill in her mouth...

He blinks.

...what...

...the fuck...

“She’s so good…”

Again.

The room drags along to keep up when Keith turns his head to notice the girl next to him. She stands close, eyes dark and heavy when they switch from the full projection up to him.

Okay.

There was definitely something extra in that weed.

Or the shot.

Probably the shot.

She giggles, breathy and high.

“Guess what?”

Keith lets a hand drag over the side of his face. Does he-... He doesn’t know her, right? Is he _supposed_ to know her? “What?”

“I’m supposed to be-...” another giggle, “-...finishing my thesis right now…”

She says it like it’s a secret but it isn’t the first time she’s told someone. Smiles like she’s truly happy where she is. Slips her fingers down to lace them with Keith’s and sighs as she leans into him and glances back up at the projection.

Keith...doesn’t know what to do with it. But is finally embracing the buzz in the back of his skull now that he realizes why it’s happening. And the hand holding feels oddly nice so-

Why.

Why’s it feel-

“C’mon!”

And shit, the room _really_ really isn’t cool with being pulled around like that. But Keith follows even slower, feet tangling up in themselves. He swears he can feel the breeze on his face they’re moving so fast - dragging lights.

More time gone.

More buzzing.

More touching. Her back to his chest. His to someone else’s chest. It’s a little much but the high is so fucking pleasant that Keith can’t help but eat it up. Let his eyes close again. Doesn’t even know these fucking people but honestly who cares?

Not Keith.

Her hair sticks to his neck a little as they move to the beat. Straight and black and short. He reaches up to sweep it off. The sweaty cling. Doesn’t really care when it goes right back.

Physics.

Or something.

“You know him?”

Keith’s eyes drop open at the feeling of her breath on his cheek.

“What...?”

“He keeps looking over here,” she grins, Keith following the black nail pointing forward until it lands on- “Him.”

A few people ahead - in front of the center crowd break - not currently looking but hips moving as the girl in front of him bends to smoothly drag back into him.

Lance.

“Thought he was lookin’ at me,” she says, then reaches around to brush against the back of Keith’s neck, “but he’s definitely lookin’ at you.”

Keith swallows, heart dipping a little. Swallows again because apparently his salivary glands have no chill.

He leans forward a bit to speak into her ear. “...know ‘im…”

 _Blown_ ‘im, he almost tacks on, but the spiked shot must’ve left at least a tiny shred of brain-to-mouth filter left in his body. Because he doesn’t.

But.

“Hhhh…” he groans, eyes raking lazily over Lance’s body as it moves so fluidly, “Fuck, he’s so hot…”

He can feel the girl in front of him giggle. Nod. Needs to figure out her name. “Friends?”

A snapshot of Lance crowding him against the kitchen counter flashes in Keith’s head. Friends. “Blow ‘im a lot…”

What was that thing he just said about the remaining shred of brain-to-mouth filter?

She laughs.

Full-body.

Keith doesn’t really think his weird relation to Lance is all that funny but the high lifting his brain pulls out a laugh too.

When did the person behind him disappear?

“I know that girl,” she hums, eyes flicking to the one who’s currently grinding against Lance _really really well,_ if Lance’s impressed smirk is any indication.

Keith can’t make the connection.

His dazed silence inspires more explanation. “I’m gonna go distract her.”

Distract her...

It’s enough to have his new friend turning fully, the grin on her face honest yet mischievous as she spells it out. Thank god. “I take her away. You move in. Bye bye jealousy.”

Keith frowns.

He’s not jealous.

Is he?

She’s turning and pressing forward regardless. And it _is_ a good fucking plan, Keith thinks now that he understands it. And his feet follow after her on autopilot and he really wishes he could’ve seen the transition better, but it’s dark and he’s high and possibly tripping out on something and it’s second nature to fill the spot once it’s empty, his arms reaching up to wrap around Lance’s neck so he can feel the pleasantly surprised hum-

“Ohh,” Lance grins slyly, hands sliding to the small of his back when he realizes it’s him, “Hey there, sexy.”

It’s smooth as hell and Keith wants to uncharacteristically hug that girl but she’s gone and he’s more concerned about this anyway, head tilting forward to grin up into Lance’s space. “Found you...”

They sway together without realizing it, picking it up where it was left off. Lance’s fingers spread. Flush against his back. “Took you long enough...”

Keith consults the buzz in the back of his head. The constant static. The mute. It’s what’s throwing his balance off he thinks. “There’s something...in the shot…” (It was better in his head.) “I think…”

Lance chuckles, the press of his body warming Keith from the chest down. “Oh, _definitely_ something…”

“We’re not gonna die, are we?”

He moves them around to slot himself against Keith’s back, voice dropping to his ear from behind. “Mm…hope not…”

It should probably be a little alarming - Lance’s nonchalance - but Keith’s swimming in the warmth of the hands on him...over his shoulders...down his arms...snaking around his hips…

He's not the only one feeling the high.

“Hard stuff’s only upstairs,” Lance murmurs through a pleasant grin. Then, “Damn, when were you gonna tell me how good you are?”

“At what…”

“Dancing…” his fingers press into his hips, “Holdin’ out on me, mami. We coulda been doin’ this the whole time...”

The bass settles deep in Keith’s chest. Rumbles around. Another time he would've thought it was his nerves, but he's floating so decently now that they've melted away entirely. “Order of operations,” he mumbles, smirk silly. “Blowjobs first. Dancing second.”

It has Lance snickering hard enough to slow the sway - to focus on tilting down to laugh into the side of Keith’s neck, arms wrapping around his middle and holding so firmly that it trips Keith’s heart up a little bit because it’s not the beat this time. It’s the hold. The security. Even as Lance gets himself together enough to finally lift his face again.

“God you’re so funny, Gloves…”

It’s…

No one’s ever...told him that before…

Keith presses his ass back. Firm against Lance’s lap. Grins at the low hum in his ear. Dizzy dizzy dizzy hands pull him back flush.

Keith sighs - eyes shut.

“Mmm…”

The darkness is disorienting. Can't find up from down. Has the floor threatening to slide out from under him.

Lance wouldn't let him fall though.

“Soft…” it’s his hands, dropping from Keith’s hips to smoothly drag down over the leggings clinging to his thighs.

They slide…

Up and down…

Up…

Down…

Blunt fingernails rake towards his waist.

Keith’s back arches against him, warmth spreading. “Handsy…” he murmurs, but isn't exactly complaining.

He can feel Lance’s breath against the shell of his ear - his lips - but his response doesn't come.

Just more touching. Slowly. Up...and down…

Up...and down...

Up...

And down...

Keith swallows thickly, lids fluttering closed and head tilting back. “...I like...your hands on me…”

They're fire-hot.

Hypnotizing.

Drawing slowly up the sides of his thighs. Then the front.

Keith pushes back against him. Tries to melt in.

The words Lance breathe out are either slurred or in Spanish. The latter probably. Keith eats it up, turning in his hold so he can meet the heavy-lidded eyes with a smirk.

More warmth. The edges of his vision buzz out as he blinks...rakes his fingers through the short hair at the base of Lance’s skull...

Sof-

“Ooh-I like that…” he hums, eyes closing.

Keith keeps it up - lightly scratches his scalp as Lance leans his head into it, visions of black cats dancing across Keith’s brain. It’s cute and kinda hot for some reason and Lance’s hands slide from his waist to just under Keith’s ass, using the hold to pull him up against his lap.

Keith bites his lip, breath catching.

Lance is getting hard-

“There you guys are! Help me - I’m freaking out!”

It takes a solid three seconds for Hunk’s voice to register fully in his hazy brain. And when it finally does, Keith turns yet again, making sure to slot his back up against Lance’s front like before as Hunk’s frown focuses in front of him.

“What’s wrong dude.” The tone of Lance’s voice is still pleasantly lulled. It makes it easier to focus on the slide of his arms back around Keith’s waist.

Well...for Keith, that is.

Hunk on the other hand- “She’s here.”

“Who.”

“Shay.”

Keith can feel the sly grin slowly form on Lance’s face with the way their cheeks are pushed together like this.

Hunk must see it too, because he throws his hands up. “Dude! Not helping! She wants to come home with us!”

“She does?”

“Well no, not us. Me! She wants to come home with me! Or at least I think she does.”

Keith watches it all happen in front of him, blinking in the daze created from the drugs and the secure hold Lance has around him as he speaks.

It seems like a big deal.

Is it?

“My dude, don’t stress,” Lance reassures. “We’ll just head out, right?”

The only reason Keith makes the connection that the end of that was directed at him is the subtle squeeze around him. “Yeah.”

“There.” The arms unwrap. They’re Lance And Keith again instead of LanceAndKeith. “Where’s she at - you just left her?”

Hunk motions over his shoulder as Keith tries to steady himself a little. “She’s still with Nyma- man, should I be freaking out about this?”

“No way, be cool - you’re gonna scare her off.”

“Oh my god.”

The next few moments fly by too quickly - too intensely for Keith to catch up. All he knows is Lance is pulling him through the people and they’re in and then out and then the back of his head’s rolling against the headrest in Hunk’s car. The back of it. They’re both in the back because Shay’s in the front with Hunk and Keith can’t really see her but the two of them are talking a lot and it blends together with the words to _Take The Long Way Home_ as they physically drag themselves out of the radio between them and into the night.

The stars are out up there. Keith blinks slowly up at them through the sunroof as his lack of balance leaves him swaying against the seat.

He sees them. He sees the stars colliding with each other, tiny tails of cosmic dust trailing behind them. And he sees Lance looking at him out of the corner of his eye - harmonica pulling out a melody when Keith rolls his head over to meet his gaze.

Lance stares. Contently. Hazy eyes.

And he smiles.

_So  when  the  d a y  comes to settle  down_

_w h o ’ s    t o    b l a m e   i f     you’re not  a r o un d_

_y o u   t  o  o  k    t  h  e    l   o  n   g     w  a  y       h     o   m   e--_

And then they’re there.

They’re here.

They’re stumbling and Keith’s pushing through and Lance’s job of walking him to the door is done but he says “Gotta pee so bad,” and Keith doesn’t really get it all together until he’s laying on the floor, a pillow from the couch drug under his head as he lets his body sink into the floorboards to the sounds of the bathroom door clicking shut.

Then nothing.

Then distant flushing.

Then squeaky sinks and footsteps on tile and the door opening up again.

His ears ring in the quiet. Slightly spinning walls. Keith doesn’t wanna think about Lance leaving so he doesn’t. He doesn’t think. At all. He just lies on the hard floor with the side of his face smashed into the couch pillow until he hears the sigh and gentle grunt of someone settling to lay down behind him.

The pillow dips.

Distinct soap smell.

Warmth close behind him.

Keith can’t help the pleased little smile that dances across his lips as that warmth settles snugly up against him. Big spoon. “...Hunk’s out there…”

Lance hums, breath fanning across the back of his neck. “Mm-yeah...but _you’re_ in _here_ …” His hand snakes over Keith’s side, fingers spreading as they slowly venture under his shirt as explanation.

Keith’s pulse kicks back up into an interested rhythm. He can feel the pads of each of Lance’s fingers. The point of contact of his warm palm. “He-... They're waiting for you…”

Lance hums again but doesn’t say anything...just focuses on teasingly trailing back down to the side of Keith’s thigh...slipping the phone out from Keith’s waistband and tossing it gently to clatter in front of them so he has more room to touch.

And the movements may be lazy, but they aren’t uncalculated - aren’t absentminded. He squeezes and draws his hand over and for a moment Keith’s heart spikes, the grip dangerously close as he skims his fingers between Keith’s legs. And then Lance pulls, calm but confident, and slips his leg in from behind to fill the space between them.

Keith swallows, the pressure of Lance’s thigh rubbing where what was once dangerous is now detrimental.

“Lance…”

“Mm?”

Steadying breath… “Hunk…”

“Mm…”

It’s not doing any good.

Lance doesn’t want to leave.

Keith doesn’t want Lance to leave.

It’s one in the morning and they’re on the dark living room floor, Lance’s thigh between Keith’s legs and his hand sliding up his shirt from behind.

And it’s…

What day is it…?

Why isn’t Shiro home…?

The vibration against Keith’s ass startles him until he realizes it’s Lance’s phone. He only does because Lance’s bottom half leans away as he pulls it out of his pants pocket, the hand leaving him as well.

Keith instantly misses it.

“...fuck…”

“Lemme guess.” It’s Hunk. It _has_ to be Hunk.

The brightness of the phone dipping around to be displayed at eye-level has Keith wincing. So fucking bright.

It takes him a solid amount of time to focus enough to read the texts.

_dude i love u but somtime today pls_

_bro_

_omg man either come back out or stay the night shays sendin signals_

Keith blinks.

Hunk’s gonna get laid.

“You can.”

Lance pulls his phone back. “What.”

“You can stay,” he explains, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder. “You can stay the night.”

Lance blinks.

Keith blinks.

Oh my god.

Keith’s gonna get laid.

“What about Six?”

“I don’t-...know where he’s at…” Not a good argument. Keith doesn’t have to be sober to see the conflict in Lance’s eyes as he stares back at him. But, “I want you to stay.”

“H-”

“I want _you_ , Blue...” He turns for this one - full body - onto his back so he can peer up at where Lance is watching very closely, tongue wetting his bottom lip as Keith draws his knees up and arches his back _just_ the right amount. He can feel Lance’s eyes pour over him - take him in - can physically feel the heat that his gaze leaves in its wake. “...don’t want you to stop touching me…”

It’s an invitation that leaves nothing to the imagination, and Lance swallows thickly before quickly tapping something onto his phone, hitting send, and then tossing it behind himself so he can surge forward, a hand grabbing behind Keith’s thigh to sling it over his waist just as the sound of the apartment building’s front door slamming shut echoes through the hallway.

They both freeze - caught mid air and eyes locked but mouths hovering because wait…

That can’t be Hunk.

Has to be a neighbor?

Keith zones as he listens closely in the silence for the footfalls - for the approach - for the jingle of keys that stop right in front of-

The scrape of a key sliding into the lock has them both scrambling - arms flailing and legs kicking out to right themselves and propel themselves toward the hallway and Keith’s world kind of does a 180 on him but he’s straight enough to push - to get hands on Lance’s back and to fucking _push_ him down the hallway and to the right and into his room and they’re backing in and getting the door shut just in time and Keith freezes. Or at least tries to. Because his chest is heaving and his heart rate’s hit the roof and he can feel Lance behind him still as they wait, crowded against the door, waiting for the footfalls to trail from the entryway to the kitchen...from the kitchen to the living room...from the living room to the hallway.

Keith flattens his hands out on the closed door, that rush of _something_ flooding through him like it used to when he’d sneak back into the house before his stepdad could catch him out.

He can hear Lance swallow behind him.

Can feel his lungs fighting - pushing out air through his nose and into Keith’s hair.

The steps shift by slowly, both in and out of time, and Keith’s almost positive his brother can hear them between the door until the footfalls fade off into the room across the hall, its door clicking shut behind him.

They did it.

Keith lets out a breath - heavy and shaky and it blooms into this breathy chuckle as he turns to observe the matching relief dawning over Lance’s face.

Oh god…

“He’s gonna kill me,” Lance whispers, but it's through a smile.

Just like when Keith reaches up to mimic their hold from the house party, arms looping around his neck, “No he’s not,” mouths closing in.

“Mhm. I’m gone…” - but the rest stops short as Keith leans in to slot their lips together. Because Keith’s buzz-high and confident where he's been desperately lacking lately.

And Lance is feeling it - Keith can tell by the eager way he deepens it, head tilting and following after him when Keith’s pulling far enough to break away, grin playful as he moves toward the center of the room.

But, “C’mere,” he practically purrs, and he catches Keith’s wrist to pull him back against him - for a moment - for an open mouthed kiss - for just one and then Keith’s breaking away again and just begging to be chased.

Lance can probably tell by the way Keith elongates his movements without looking back - how he gives him a show and stretches and then plops down onto his bed, his back arching to present his ass so invitingly as he moves.

Keith anticipates the hands on him. Waits for them as he crawls to the other side of the bed on his hands and knees as the floorboards creak.

Lance is murmuring in Spanish again - not coherently enough to understand but that anticipation is setting in as his voice draws closer and suddenly it’s a little too much - just _this_ side of panic - so Keith turns instead, sitting straight back on his heels and hands gathered on the bed between his legs because he’s been doing this long enough to know how to carry himself as coyly as possible.

And it’s not a mystery that it’s working on Lance - like hardcore - his grin playful but pupils blown wide. And maybe it’s just the drugs but Keith likes to think that’s not all it is, matching his smirk as he reaches out to hook a finger under the collar of his shirt when he finally reaches the edge of the bed.

The tug down is tiny but it’s enough to have their mouths crashing together again - a little bite of teeth on accident but Keith’s not complaining. And neither is Lance, who steadies himself enough to join him on the bed without losing the kiss, which sounds so loud in Keith’s ears - is it actually loud? Is it so loud that Shiro can hear?

The mattress dips under Lance’s knees as he grows closer, breath hot and getting noticeably heavier against Keith’s cheek. And Keith- _fuck, dizzy_ \- Keith plants a hand on his chest and uses the other to start on his belt even though in retrospect it’s a lot easier with two and-

“Mm…” Lance is humming instead, collecting both of Keith’s hands without breaking away until, slyly, “Lemme get you first...”

Keith’s out of breath. Already. He doesn’t realize it until his heart starts to thump against his chest because, “Huh...?”

But Lance is crowding, hands still warm as they make their way down his sides again. “You never let me get you off…” he explains lowly, the tease in his tone good-natured but setting Keith’s pulse off regardless. “Can’t be the only one feelin’ good, right Gloves...?”

Keith blinks. Tries to comprehend through the haze.

Lance is-…

_Oh._

The hands slide downward but never _too_ downward - never past what’s already been touched and-

Permission.

He’s waiting for permission to get him off.

Keith swallows down the pulse in his throat. “Uh…” A moment of clarity in the haze. But what the hell? He was just about to let this boy fuck him - how is this any different. Wait no, they can’t fuck, Shiro’s a room away. Wait. Jesus, what was his grand plan here?

Lance can see his struggle. Grins fondly. Up in his space. “C’mon mami…”

And Keith is so high off of seventeen different things right now that he can’t help but fall for it - fall into it - into Lance, avoiding eye contact but nodding because yes. Yes, deep at the core of it all, Keith’s wanted Lance’s hands on him since the very beginning.

It doesn’t stop the swirl of nerves that are already in full gear as Lance presses forward though, slotting their lips back together. Because he’s got his fingers hooked into the waistband of Keith’s leggings before Keith’s dropping down to stop them - muscle-memory acutely aware even as the walls spin around him. Because this is the first time anyone’s touched him - _touched him_ touched him - since Isaac.

But, “Okay,” Lance is assuring, lips brushing lightly as he pulls his hands away to settle back on top. “Like this?”

Keith presses his back against the wall, heart pounding as his nod gives the okay for Lance to slide a hand under his thigh and bring it up - to part Keith’s legs with a confidence that should be alarming but is instead just super appealing.

And it could be scandalous - this position - Keith here, pressed against the wall with his legs spread wide. Could be outrageously exposing if Keith’s leggings were someplace other than his body. But there they cling still, Lance’s palm smoothing over the soft fabric from his knee, slowly down the inside of his thigh, drawing close to his lap and Keith steels himself for-

“Hhnn…” it slips out - breathy - keening - light as the touch of Lance’s hand passing over him for the first time has all these pops of pleasure lighting up in his skull and his chest and his stomach and-

Lance grins, wetting his bottom lip as he gently palms him through his leggings, the other hand keeping Keith’s leg parted to the side.

He says something.

_Something._

Definitely in English but Keith’s eyes are fluttering shut at the new confident pressure, his body lifting off the mattress and then up into the ceiling and then the atmosphere and the stars with the little tails of cosmic dust trailing after them.

Another hum.

Swallow it down.

Lance flips his hand to graze the backs of his knuckles up the outline in Keith’s pants. More defined points of contact. Then smoothing back down.

The breath Keith lets out is starting to shutter. Tremble. He won’t open his eyes but he knows Lance is watching him. Every face he makes. Every attempt at steadying himself as the warmth between his legs starts to spread to his face. It’s too much given everything that’s going on. So he turns his head away - hides as much of it as he can against his own shoulder because he isn’t confident he can catch himself and Lance is so cool all the fucking time and-

_“Ahh…”_

His hips stutter against a particularly pleasant upstroke. And it must be loud enough for Lance to sweat it because he huffs a small chuckle and then breathes into his neck. “You’re _trying_ to get Six to kill me, aren’t you…”

And the combination of the friction and the heat and Lance’s voice low in his ear is _so_ much. Just _so_ fucking much. And he’s definitely trembling now from the overstimulation of everything being blown up by his high - magnified into something overwhelming as Lance works against him through his leggings. So when the hand drops from his leg to grab gently at his jaw, easing his face back front and center, Keith really can’t be blamed for tilting his head a bit to guide Lance’s pointer finger into his mouth.  

Because he needs it. He needs to focus his energy before he vibrates out of his own fucking skin. And Lance doesn’t sound like he’s against it as Keith does just that, eyes never opening once as he sucks and swirls his tongue around the finger in his mouth, then the second one that he can’t tell if _he_ got on his own or if Lance is just indulging him with.

Either way, it’s exactly what he needs. Exactly grounding enough to focus him enough and to muffle the hums of pleasure that still slip when he’s not careful.

Because they’re getting there. _He’s_ getting there. The swirling heat is sending out sparks of pleasure down his legs and to his fingertips as Lance’s pace picks up - lips draw close to his ear - fingers start to softly pump into Keith’s mouth - “Fuck, you’re so sexy…”

And Keith’s getting close - getting so overheated that the wall is melting behind him - that he’s positive he’s burning Lance’s skin where he touches him - where the pads of Lance’s fingers drag lightly over the flat of his tongue - and _fuck-_

“Come on, mami-”

- _fuck-_

“-come on, baby-”

- _fuck-_

“-come on - come for me, Keith-”

-everything muffles over as it hits - as it washes over him and dunks him under and Lance’s fingers pull out and his hand cups over Keith’s mouth and the stars are on the ceiling - are colliding and bursting and the wall slips out from behind him and _hands - hands-mouth-warmth he can’t hear he can’t hear he can’t hear except for_

_“-orld to me, Keith…”_

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

…

...hindsight…

...is…

...20/20…

…

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly clear.

That’s how Keith would describe his headspace when his eyes slowly ease open.

And it goes against everything that he sees around him because his bedroom is lit, warm yellows of the sun. Which means it’s morning. But how can morning come when you don’t remember falling asleep?

Something shifting next to him in his bed has him focusing, remaining still but eyes flicking up to take in the source of the movement.

It’s Lance.

Propped up on his elbow just a little bit.

Staring serenely at his phone.

Keith’s heart should kick into double-time from the near sight of it, but there’s something about it that eases him. Something calm. Something...soft, he guesses.

Lance’s thumb nudges the Instagram feed up on his phone, his face profiled starkly against the white wall behind him. It’s a moment of odd domesticity, until he must notice the difference in Keith’s breathing, because then he glances down and over, throwing him a small grin when he realizes he’s no longer the only one awake.

“Mornin’ princess.”

Keith immediately redirects his gaze, not sure if he’s embarrassed or not. “What time is it…” His voice is crackly. Worthy of clearing his throat.

“Eleven.”

“When’d you wake up?”

“Hmm...eight-ish, I think?”

Keith frowns, worried what kind of bullshittery his hair is up to but not enough to bypass the fact that Lance has been up for three fucking hours while Keith sleeps away next to him. “Jesus…”

“You always snore like that?”

There’s a tease in his tone. And yep. Keith’s definitely embarrassed. It’s no longer a mystery. “Where the fuck’s my phone...”

It’s then that he moves around enough to make a connection. To realize that not only is his phone gone, but his shirt is as well. It has this little curl of dread forming in the pit of his stomach, especially when he not so secretly lifts the blanket up to peek under. Because he’s not even wearing the same pants. He’s in shorts.

Shit.

Keith steadies himself, slowly lowering the blanket, and when he turns to look over, Lance is already watching him, a knowing expression ready on his face as he waits. For the inevitable probably.

And Keith is just gonna say it, “Uh…” because he remembers the party and Lance getting him off but-... “Did we…”

Lance waits. Patiently. Eyebrows raising a little.

Dammit, he’s gonna make Keith say it, isn’t he?

“We didn’t...hook up, did we…?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

Keith huffs. Fine. “Did we fuck?”

It sounds so gross when it comes out. So sleazy. And Lance lets it soak in good and long before he finally lets him off the hook. “Nah, we didn’t fuck.”

The heavy sigh of relief that barrels out of Keith as he lets his head fall back onto the pillow feels excessive, but _shit,_ “Oh thank god.”

"Oh," he doesn’t expect the little sarcastic nod from Lance, _"okay,"_  the corners of his mouth turning down matter-of-factly.

And Keith shakes his head, “No, it’s just…” Holy shit, he just dodged like twenty bullets here. Because jesus, he could’ve made a gigantic asshole out of himself without even knowing it. Could’ve gotten sloppy and weird and awkward and had absolutely _no_ recollection of it. And trust him when he says he _definitely_ wants to remember sleeping with Lance when it actually happens. Speaking of… “So what... _did_ happen exactly?”

Lance’s little hurt frown has evened itself out by now, his phone fallen to his lap as well. “Again...more specific…”

It’d be so much easier if he could just hear what’s going on in Keith’s head instead of having to interpret his bullshit reasoning. But. “I remember everything up to-...like…”

“Orgasming so hard you blacked out?”

Keith’s eyes shut in mortification. “Oh my god…”

“It was only for like, a second.”

“Oh my god.”

“And then you went to the bathroom and changed and fell asleep as soon as you came back in.”

Keith’s hands now cover his entire face, his body sinking into the bed as he groans. “Oh my goooood…” Who is he? Why does he instantly turn into a gigantic idiot whenever Lance is involved?

“Also, I dunno where your phone is, but your door is cracked open from when you left and Six is up so you should be quieter.”

Keith’s life takes a break from shitting on him to immediately flash before his eyes.

Shiro.

Fuck.

He completely forgot.

“He doesn’t know you’re here, right?”

Lance shakes his head, picking his phone back up. “No. Space Jam does, though.”

The picture of Jam curled comfortably between his and Lance’s legs should be heartwarmingly cute, but it just solidifies the realization that Keith is completely fucked.

“How’re we gonna get you out…” It’s more to himself than anything.

Lance doesn’t have a chance to share in his problem solving because the floorboards in the hallway are suddenly starting to creak, announcing Shiro’s approach with just enough time for the two of them to share a panicked look and for Lance to quickly bury himself down low in the blankets.

He makes it just in time for the soft knock on Keith’s door frame.

Keith throws on his best innocent face - “Yeah?” - which is hard when the frantic rearranging leaves the side of Lance’s face pressed against his bare hip under the blankets.

Shiro’s appearance through his door doesn’t help in the slightest. “Hey. Your phone keeps going off. Some unknown number.” He brings it over - from where Keith left it in the living room last night, he now realizes as every step closer jacks his nerves up.

He takes it, Lance remaining completely still under the blanket. “Thanks.”

“They’re really blowing you up,” Shiro says curiously, “You know that number?”

Keith glances down, already knowing it’s Isaac and thanking himself for taking his name out of his contacts for a number of reasons now. “Must be a telemarketer or something.”

“Annoying.”

“For real.”

And Shiro’s just about to make his way out when he frowns, his eyes directed at the lump in the bed next to Keith.

Motherfucker.

“What?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Nothing. Just thought I heard you talking to Jam in here.”

Keith saves the sigh of relief for another time, Lance’s shallow breath annoying present on his hipbone. “I was. She just left.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

“You alright? You’re acting weird.”

Keith steadies himself internally, motioning openly with his hands and just _fuck, go away Shiro._ “M’fine.”

It must be convincing enough because it gets his brother to nod and then continue his way back to the door. “Alright. Don’t sleep the day away.”

“I won’t. Can you close the door?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

And then it’s shut.

And the footsteps are padding back down toward the living room.

Safe.

Lance sneaks out from under the sheets, hair tousled and smirk evident as he whispers up at him, “Holy shit.”

Keith’s too busy covering his entire face with his hands again.

Holy shit is right.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

They end up getting him out in the thirty seconds it takes Shiro to go put something in the mailbox outside the apartment.

They wait until the front door shuts and then the sound of the apartment building door and then Lance fucking _sprints._ Fucking _books_ it down the hallway for the opposite door before Shiro comes back.

It’s a work of pure skill and a good amount of luck.

But it works.

And Keith is oddly lonely when the rush of pulling it off finally dies down.

 

* * *

 

 

Pidge is swamped with curriculum stuff. A lot of lesson planning and gathering of supplemental sources and she’s only available for the occasional _whats the scope and sequence of me throwing myself off my balcony_ text that Keith is expected to respond to with equally morbid support. It’s expected because he understands. Because he’s done it before. (The curriculum, not throwing himself off the balcony. He’s _jumped_ off a balcony, but not _thrown himself,_ let’s be clear.)

Point is, she’s not really available to hang out with. And Keith isn’t super great at keeping friends, so he really only has Shiro and Hunk and Lance to distract himself with.

And Isaac.

_there’s this huge lumpy minimalist sculpture here of a deer giving birth_

_you’d hate it_

_it’s like ten feet tall_

Keith hates himself for smiling.

Fucking _hates himself for smiling._

Instead he puts on his shoes and grabs an empty bag and drives to Isaac’s house to go get his shit. Alone. With Isaac halfway across the country.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it sooner. This is the perfect time to do it - to just grab all his shit and go without the risk of seeing him again. But even with the safety of the miles that separate them, Keith can’t ignore the heavy sinking feeling in his stomach when he pulls up to the familiar house.

But he pushes through. And up the concrete stairs. And to the door even though his heart is pounding a little when it really shouldn’t be because a split second of panic has him second guessing - because what if the whole Portland thing is bullshit and Isaac’s just trying to get him to come back here on his own? What if he’s waiting in there right now for him to open the door?

Keith shakes his head - physically shakes the thought out of his mind because he sounds like a paranoid idiot and he needs to just push forward - push forward - flick through his keys until he can find the house one and move on with his life - get better - he just needs to find this stupid-

Keith pauses.

Frowns.

Cycles through the keys again as they circle around the ring in his hand.

Because there’s the one for the car…the apartment...the storage block Shiro uses...and their dad’s house…

But.

What...the _fuck._

_“Keith?”_

It’s the first time he’s initiated the call since stumbling out of this very doorway and Keith is _livid._ “When did you take the key?”  

_“What key?”_

_“Your_ key. You know what the fuck I’m talking about - stop being an asshole.”

The dogs across the street tear into the metal fence as someone walks by but they don’t distract from Isaac’s carefully innocent delivery.

_“Are you saying you lost my house key?”_

And _fuck,_ Keith wants to hit something because - “ _No,_ you fucker. I’m saying you took it so I couldn’t come get my shit without you and I wanna know _when.”_ Because he had it. He _had it_ when he came back from Lance’s to break up with him. But he can’t remember if he had it after that. And he definitely didn’t come in contact with Isaac since then. Or at least-

... _fuck…_

...not that he _knew_ of at the time…

Keith lets his eyes shut. Has to push himself to sit down on the stoop and just take a second.

_“I thought you said you didn’t want your stuff…”_

He can feel his pulse in his ears.

Taste the bile in his throat.

_“I did offer to bring it to you.”_

He’s gonna throw up.

He’s gonna puke.

_“Keith.”_

“Did you take it after you pushed me into the table?” He can’t control the shake in his voice. “Or after?”

When Keith didn’t know he was there. Work? Afterschool? Fuck, _anywhere_ he could sneak into his jacket pocket and take it without being seen?

_“If you still want your stuff, I can get it to you when I get back.”_

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking his head until the silence gets too thick. Until he feels like he’s going to be swallowed up in it.

And he can’t say anything now. Can’t power through this one when he’s only feet away from what he really wants but also the reason he still has to use coverup at work.

He hangs up instead. Musters up the energy and pushes off the stoop and stalks back to his car, empty-handed except for the the next call he’s already placed.

“Lance? What’re you up to?” Car door slams. Keys in. Deep breath. “Okay I know this sounds weird but, can I just come hang around while you do?”

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

The sun is setting now.

A constant theme.

Yellows and oranges and pinks in stripes across the floor and walls and Lance. Across the laptop opened in front of him. Across the notebook scribbled full.

Keith watches in silence from his spot on the end of Lance’s bed, comfortably cross-legged and the phone in his hand not even on.

Lance’s leg bounces as he works at his desk. Constant. Hitting the same height with each hop. It’s in time with the twirl of his pen across his fingers. First the thumb. Then the pointer. Then the middle and back and around to the thumb again. It’s practiced. A trick-move done so much over the years that muscle memory assures a clean execution every time. One of the more impressive fidgets Keith’s seen.

When the pinks and oranges and yellows dull out into cool nighttime, the soft glow of the laptop screen lulls the last of the uncomfortable adrenaline away. Evens Keith out. Settles him down. Lets him instead ponder the unexpected desire to just bring Lance over and lie down with him, their breathing falling into sync with one another as they relax because Keith...he just...he has this weird, overwhelming desire to cuddle right now.

He wants it. Can connect the ache in his chest to it. But that’s not what this is.

That’s not was he and Lance are.

He and Lance are...

Something else.

But not that.

At all.

So Keith just sits and watches.

Sits and watches.

Sits and watches.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

Hindsight is 20/20.

The first year they’re dating, Isaac’s litho prints get passed up for another girl’s in their class for the bi-annual art show. It’s a big deal. The art show. Not the fact that the girl’s work got picked instead of Isaac. Or at least, Keith thinks so.

Keith’s wrong, apparently.

Keith’s _very_ wrong and Isaac’s is _clearly_ way better than hers and how their professor could pick hers over his is absolute bullshit and _how could Keith seriously not agree with him?_

Keith agrees.

In the end.

Because Isaac won’t stop and it’s getting annoying and he just _agrees_ because he doesn’t want Isaac to be upset anymore.

But it’s not over.

Because if Keith agrees with him - if he _actually_ thinks his prints are better and should be in the show instead of hers, then he should say something to the art show coordinator, right?

That’s what a good boyfriend would do, right? They’d stand up for their partner when they’ve been wronged.

Right?

So Keith, socially anxious and stone cold sober and nervous as shit, he pads his way into this man’s office - this man he’s never seen or spoken to before even once - and he stumbles through all this shit and looks like an idiot laying out all the reasons why he feels Isaac’s work would better represent the printmaking wing and-

…

The girl’s prints stay up.

Isaac drives out off campus without him.

And hindsight is 20/20.

 

* * *

 

It’s Friday.

On Thursday, the girls at Lady A’s lost their shit when Blue danced to a Jay Park song that heavily alluded to him going down on them. The Blue Rider tag on Tumblr is still really excited about it.

But today is Friday. Friday before work, to be exact. And Shiro’s getting ready to go out _somewhere_ since he called off on his shift, which leaves Keith to receive Lance’s text in his own private company in the living room, Space Jam curled at his feet.

_can we be straight with each other for a sec_

Keith would be worried if he wasn’t too busy being amused with the ironic choice in wording. ‘Probably not’, he wants to send back, but decides against it at the last moment in case this is something serious.

He settles for **whats up** instead. Only has to wait a couple seconds for the answer. Or more like, the followup question it seems.

_u ever gonna be down for more or should i be gettin that outta my head_

It’s enough for Keith to suddenly take this _very_ seriously.

He sits up, curiosity swirling with a decent dose of nerves at all the possibilities. Is he ever going to be down for more? **what do you mean more**

He barely has to wait before his phone starts to ping, one by one by one, each bringing with it a new level of interest, starting with:

_sex_

_bc im shit at reading ur vibes_

_and i dont wanna be looking forward to something thats never gonna happen u know?_

_so like_

_no pressure at all but i kinda wanna know if ur down or not_

Keith stares. Rereads. Realizes his mouth is hanging open like an idiot but-...holy shit can you blame him? Is this...really happening?

His thumbs move before he can okay it.

**you just penta-texted**

_yeah i shoulda talked to u irl but i didnt wanna freak u out_

Holy…

Holy shit?

**me? freak out?**

_i know its so unlike u_

At his feet, Space Jam stretches her legs out past the edge of the couch. And Keith’s still trying to come to grips with the fact that Lance is texting him, asking him point blank if he’s down to fuck or not.

_so should i assume u avoiding the question means ur not up for it_

Keith panics. **no**

_ok_

Wait. **i mean no dont assume that**

_ok?_

God. **as in yes im down for it**

_ok!_

He smiles through the heat in his face, pulse quick. **is that all youre gonna say**

_im containing myself_

**from what**

_from starting it up rn_

_its past 7 right_

Keith’s grin is embarrassing, a hand dragging down his face. How could he forget Lance’s strict No Sexting Until After 7 policy? **eager**

_can u blame me? ive been such a good boy ;)_

**you snapped me a picture of your dick??**

_it seems as tho uve forgotten the apology muffin_

**i could never forget the apology muffin** He sends it out, but not before the next one can sneak in first, Lance clearly not finished with his reasoning.

_plus u act like u havent had my dick in ur mouth more days than not this week_

And oh...if Keith thought his face was red before this. Damn. Let’s just say it’s a good thing he’s got the living room to himself.

**is that a problem?**

_omg u know thats the exact OPPOSITE of a problem mami holy shi t_

Keith shakes his head, though his grin is fond. It’s just in time for Shiro to emerge from the bathroom in a wake of steam, his body soap wafting through the entire apartment. Keith needs to cut this before he has a heart attack.

**ok youre too much im gonna go get ready for work**

His phone buzzes with Lance’s response without missing a beat.

And Keith wants to die.

In a good way.

_lol ok bye mami cant wait to fuck u xoxoxoxo_

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

Keith’s solid enough to handle Fridays on his own now. He can remember orders and serve a lot at once and if he’s going to be honest, he’s pretty impressed with how good he’s gotten at this in just a few months.

It means he can’t go on as many breaks though. No backseat business with Blue. He has to come to Keith instead - get a couple flirty comments in before Keith’s swamped with more orders again. It’s kind of endearing, almost, watching him have to be patient until he can receive Keith’s attention again. It’s like some sort of strange role reversal that has Keith thinking Shiro should call off more often.

The breaks in people always come at the sound of _Holup!_ playing over the speakers. Blue’s startup song is an instant crowd hype, and everyone knows to make their way over to their seats and tables before it ends. It’s also a win-win for Keith, because he not only gets the breather, but he also gets to watch Blue slide out of his clothes, one by one without interruption.

His last routine of the night is to a song that Keith isn’t familiar with - doesn’t instantly recognize from his usual lineup as the deep blue lights gently ease on to silhouette the way he lounges against a stool.

_-I don’t wanna be alone tonight-_

_-So can you come with me?-_

It’s Jay Park. Keith knows that much.

_-I don’t wanna be alone tonight-_

_-Can you keep me company?-_

The beat kicks in slow. Unhurried. Catering to the easy, fluid movements Blue uses to ease from the stool to the edge of the stage. The transition has the lights finally showing his face, his snapback shadowing his eyes but not enough to hide the fact that he’s looking...straight ahead...past the crowd completely.

Keith straightens, his own eyes breaking away to dart around the room to see if-

Nope. Blue’s definitely looking at him…

_-I don’t wanna be alone tonight-_

Oh shit, definitely walking towards him...

_-Just got done with a show tonight-_

Definitely keeping that eye contact as he rolls to a stop, head tilting upward in confidence as nimble fingers slide the zipper of his jacket all the way down to the beat.

_-So much goin on in my life-_

_-I dunno if I’m wrong or right-_

And Keith’s pretty sure he has no idea what to do, standing stock still under all the attention. Because Blue’s already on fire, and he’s clearly directing it all at him, and he’s not even stopping for the bills that are held out in his wake.

The hoodie drops to the ground but he doesn’t pick it up. He just leaves it, focusing instead on continuing his advance towards the back bar, a grin now on his lips as he draws closer, his bare torso gleaming under the lights.

Every step he takes is impossibly smooth - impossibly alluring - building up impossibly well to the slow pops of his track pants pulling open, parting down the sides of his legs until they’re separated on the floor, completely forgotten just like his hoodie closer to the stage.

And Keith knows it’s not cool to stare, a clean glass still gripped in his hand, but he’s having trouble getting his shit together - a hopeless task when he’s got Blue, smirk knowing and snapback flipped and his briefs - shit, his briefs are so fucking tiny and hug the curve of his ass so temptingly that Keith doesn’t know if he wants to peel them off or dunk his entire head into the ice bin in front of him.

He has time for neither - for nothing - because before he knows it, Blue is _much_ closer than he was and dragging an empty chair from the nearby table and before Keith can process it, he’s using it as leverage to hop up onto the bar top - onto the counter - onto the stretch of marble six inches away from Keith’s face and the entire room goes up for grabs and _holy shit-_

_-My name’s known worldwide-_

Holy shit holy shit he’s grinding down, eyes locked as he perches on his knees in front of him, tight thighs spread-

_-but I still need someone by my side-_

-and Keith’s gonna have a heart attack, eyes wide and pulse up in the fucking stratosphere as Blue pulls off his snapback and fits it over Keith’s head instead. And it’d all be well and good if he didn’t use the momentum to slide his fingers over the back of Keith’s neck and ease him forward, bringing his face dangerously close to where he grinds his lap in those teeny tiny briefs as he mouths-

_-Oh baby are you down to ride?-_

The whistles and screams of encouragement are deafening but Keith can’t hear a fucking thing. Can’t focus on literally anything but the moment and the music and the drag of Lance’s thumb over his bottom lip before he lets go. Before he edges away to lower himself onto the counter on his back. (Keith’s never been so thankful for Shiro’s incessant nagging about keeping the marble clean.)

People have gathered now. Not so close that it’s awkward, but close enough to notice. And suddenly Keith is hyper aware of the microscope his reactions are currently under. The no doubt crazy redness of his face. The fact that he has to keep swallowing so much because Blue’s arching his back off the counter and throwing him a _look_ and Keith’s really into that. _Really_ into that, for some reason. Into that enough, apparently, that Blue has to reach over and pluck the glass still perched in Keith’s hand. It clinks against the rest, freeing Keith’s hands for- _oh no, what is it freeing his hands for?_

 _-Ay, you don’t bring your man here-_ the song continues, but it doesn’t distract from the single ice cube Blue pulls from the bin.

_-Ay, let me spend my paper-_

Keith already knows where this is going - is helpless behind the bar as Lance tilts his head to slide the ice cube over his bottom lip...bares his neck to drag it down his adam’s apple...arches his back to leave a dripping trail down his stomach, all for Keith to watch until it settles in a melting pool at the hollow of his hip.

The women respond accordingly.

Keith knows what Blue wants.

What he’s trying to get him to do.

Especially with the not so subtle tease to his gaze as he waits, stretched out so prettily on the counter for him.

_-I ain’t gotta mention-_

_-Maybe you can spend your time on me-_

Keith goes for it. Just says fuck it and swallows down the pulse in his throat so he can lean forward, lips brushing against Blue’s chilled hipbone as he slurps up the melting ice and brings it back up his chest with his teeth - a second icy trail.

And oh, Blue is pleased with him - might’ve had some sort of _something_ in the back of his head telling him Keith wouldn’t do it. But now that he has…

Cameras are going off like crazy. Flashes. Snapchat. Keith’s never gonna get a teaching job if this actually hits anywhere but he doesn’t care at the moment because _at the moment_ he’s bringing what’s rest of the ice back up to where Blue straightens, half of it perched through his teeth so it can be taken back.

Except when Blue goes for it, mouth drawing close, something mischievous flashes in Keith’s brain and he sucks the ice in instead, leaving his lips pursed playfully just in time for Blue to catch on, clearly interested in the mischief, if the surprised smirk dancing across his lips is any indication.

More flashes. More snaps. Keith hopes to god he can keep this shit up, because if he had a nickel for every time a moment of confidence around Lance left him floundering when it got down to it, he wouldn’t have to worry about finding a teaching job because he could retire to the Bahamas instead.

_-I don’t wanna be alone tonight-_

And that’s definitely where this is heading.

To something bigger.

_-So can you come with me?-_

There’s no question about it now, after all this and the conversation they had before work.

_-I don’t wanna be alone tonight-_

Blue winks at him, clearly reading his thoughts, before twisting and hopping down off the counter, the song beginning to slow...

_-I don’t wanna be alone tonight-_

The gathered crowd parts for him as he walks backwards, gaze never leaving him once as he backs his way toward the dressing room door.

The spotlight dims.

The song ends.

There’s a moment of complete silence…

And then everyone’s eyes turn to Keith, eager…

And the rush to the bar is literally a stampede.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

Keith’s freaking out.

Keith’s freaking out.

Keith’s freaking the _fuck out_ because he didn’t have time to with all the customers but now that he’s here, staring at his feet in the passenger side of Lance’s car, he’s going out of his mind because Lance is really quiet and he’s bringing him home so they can fuck and Keith is _freaking the fuck out._

Okay.

Okay, just breathe.

That’s all he has to do.

Just breathe and pretend like his heart isn’t about to pound its way out of his ribcage.

“What is it, mami…”

It’s honest but Keith can’t ignore the tease in his voice.

And fine. Really? Does he really wanna know? Keith huffs. “You’re not being obnoxious and it’s freaking me out.”

Because that’s how he gets through these situations. That’s where he finds space to breathe between all the sexual tension and shit. He’ll get all worked up, get nervous, but then Lance will say something funny or do something weird and it’ll cut the tension in half but _he’s not doing it._ He’s not doing _anything._ And just-

Keith’s thoughts are interrupted by the approaching hand, Lance reaching over and hooking his pointer finger shallowly into Keith’s left nostril and-

“Ah!”

“Better?”

Keith smacks the finger away. And he’s almost mad because… Fuck. “...yes, actually.”

Lance smiles to himself, never once looking away from the road. “Good.” The mood is instantly lifted. At least a little bit. And Keith thinks he’s done until he mumbles, quietly but with a smirk, “That’s not the only insertion happening tonight.”

The back of Keith’s head hits the headrest. “God. Okay never mind, go back to being quiet.”

When they get to 9F, Keith’s nerves jack themselves way back up again. Because it’s kind of dark. And it’s just them. And the distinct difference between why he’s usually here and why he’s here now has him forcing himself to plant himself against the counter, his lap pressed against the wooden cupboards because as nervous as he is, his body is still _way_ excited and still running high off Blue’s last routine.

It opens him up for Lance’s approach behind him. He’s not sure if he leaves it open on purpose or not but that’s how it all starts.

 _“Fuck_ you’re tense…”

Keith rolls his head to the side, not exactly pressing back into the warmth behind him but baring his neck just the same. “I’m not...”

Lance isn’t convinced - plants a kiss just below his ear - presses his open mouth down the curve of his neck.

It’s enough to get Keith pressing back into him, just like that. “Lance…”

“Mm?”

A kiss to his jawline, Lance’s hand reaching around to tilt his head further. He’s forgotten what he was going to say.

Lance fills in the silence for him. “I’m so glad I finally texted you…” His voice is low. Travels back up to Keith’s ear and sends vibrations down his spine. “Been wanting to fuck you way too long now…”

Keith groans, quietly, brows coming together. How can he just say shit like that? How does his brain let him do it?

“You good with bottom?” Another example. Such a smooth question. No tremble to his voice.

It hits Keith harder than it probably should. Is he good with having Lance’s dick up his ass? “Fuck… Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t…”

He can feel Lance’s smirk against his neck. The small exhale of a chuckle. He nudges Keith’s hip into turning. “C’mere.”

The edge of the counter presses into Keith’s back, but he’s more focused on Lance’s mouth drawing close, his lips parting, only to drop back as Keith moves to close in. It’s a tease. An act of revenge for the ice cube an hour ago.

Keith lets it slide, too busy watching Lance drop to his knees in front of him. Warmth swirls in his stomach - slowly - toes curling - as he just barely brushes his lips over where Keith’s muscles are tensing in anticipation.

But it doesn’t come.

And it doesn’t come.

And Keith lets out a testy breath, “Lance…” which does no good to seal the deal, but _does_ have Lance pulling at the top of his waistband, easing his leggings down over his hips until just the tip of Keith’s dick pokes free from his underwear because he’s _that hard,_ yes. Go ahead and judge, but you’d be just as fucked too if you were in his situation and this was your thing.

Lance smirks up at him, fingers still dipped in his waistline, and Keith’s about to snap until he leans forward, eyes shimmering as he takes an experimental lick at the head.

Keith’s hips buck - he doesn’t even realize he’s white-knuckling the edge of the counter until the pain starts to register. “Fuck,” he huffs, but it’s breathier than he wants. “You’re gonna make this impossible, aren’t you?”

Because that’s all he needs. He’s already jumping out of his skin with how nervous he is. Now he has to deal with Lance being a gigantic tease too?

Lance’s grin is terrible as he slides back up to eye-level, “What, you’d prefer something more direct?”

Keith’s cornered, pulse in every direction, but _shit-_ “You said you’ve been waiting to fuck me,” he tugs him closer, “So fuck me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. In fact he probably shouldn’t have asked at all, because the hands under his ass and the lift and the tiny little head rush as Lance picks him up and carries him is enough to get those nerves skyrocketing yet again.

But he fights through it. Crashes their mouths together. Doesn’t really _give a shit_ when his back accidentally slams against the wall in the hallway because it’s his own fault for throwing Lance’s balance off when he grinds his lap into him like that.

It’s a struggle but they make it - they stumble into Lance’s room and Keith knows he’s gonna get tossed onto the bed with the way those hands grip at the backs of his thighs and he’s grateful for the distance, because it means he gets to watch Lance pull his shirt off where he stands at the end of the bed, his muscles flexing with the movement of it and _fuck,_ Keith’s gonna get that. He’s gonna hit that in like two seconds holy shit.

Lance tosses his shirt to the floor, the other arm reaching over to tap something on his desk, and Keith doesn’t understand how music always makes things sexier but damn, music is definitely making things sexier, Lance’s half-grin making Keith’s heart flutter in his chest as he finally drops onto the bed to crawl over on top of him.

His skin is so hot. So smooth. So weirdly addicting as Keith reaches around to run both hands down the curve of his back and pull him down on top of himself.

Lance hums at the friction, working his hips in a sway that Keith recognizes from the club but hasn’t been able to enjoy until now. And _man,_ is he enjoying it.

“Hhh…” talking is hard, “Hhhow’re…”

You know what, never mind.

Lance’s chuckle is obviously directed at his struggle, but it’s soon forgotten in favor of the tug of his leggings over the curve of his hips again, over the swell of his ass, Keith lifting off the mattress to help it along until Lance is staring face-down at his underwear like he’s trying to process, his tongue halted at the corner of his mouth in thought until his eyes flick up to meet Keith’s.

And Keith...flustered… “What.” reddening… “You never heard of panty-lines before?”

Because why else would he be wearing a thong? Honestly, he expects him to wear leggings with normal underwear?

Lance’s eyebrows have raised a considerable amount, although it’s clearly out of pure appreciation. “Man, you just keep the surprises comin’, don’t you…”

Keith rolls his eyes but preens at the attention, pulling Lance back up with a hand on each cheek so he can hide underneath his body again. “Shut up, just fuck me.”

But Lance is smiling, dirty now as he slips his fingers around the fabric near Keith’s hips and gently slides it down without looking, clearly understanding of its fragile nature. “Damn. You got it, mami.”

The bare friction against the silky track pants is oddly satisfying, Keith’s head dropping to press back into the pillow as Lance grinds down against him. He gets that friction going at a pace that hangs in time with both the music he put on and rhythm of their breaths growing more labored.

It’s so effortless - literally everything he does - and Keith would be mad if he wasn’t so busy being helplessly turned on by it. By the press of his hips. The sweep of his tongue. The drag of his hand from Keith’s sternum down to his-

“Fuck,” Keith’s back arches - eyes squeeze shut as the points of warm pleasure start to set off in his gut as Lance flicks his wrist. Because this is actually happening. Like for real. He’s in Blue’s bed, pantsless, riding high off the confident jerk of his hand and-

Fuck, he needs to calm down.

He’s gonna lose it if he keeps hyping himself up like this.

It’s a normal hookup, just-

Except it’s not a normal hookup. It’s really _really_ not. Because it’s a long time coming and it’s the first time he’s slept with someone since Isaac and it’s really really _really_ not a normal hookup because it’s with-

“Lance-”

The push to flip them over is as much about getting some distance to clear his head as it is about prolonging the quickly approaching inevitability. But Lance isn’t complaining, brows raising again in more surprised appreciation as Keith comes to settle over him, a hand on his chest and the other reaching up to pull out his ponytail.

“Where’s your lube.”

Keith’s hair falls against his neck, his question that isn’t a question floating between them until Lance seems to get with the program.

“Bottom drawer,” he says, although his attention is divided. “You look really good with this down.”

The hand that comes to card through the back of Keith’s hair is almost sentimental. If it wasn’t for the fact that it happens as Keith’s digging through a mess of socks for a bottle of lube, that is.

“Thanks.” He finds it. Grabs it and shoves the drawer closed so sharply that the lamp on top of the nightstand wobbles. “Shit, sorry.”

This can’t be the first time Lance’s seen him with his hair down, right?

No time to think about it now.

The cap clicks open just as the song around them changes to something new but still slow. Still hookup music. It’s the perfect backdrop for the fact that Keith’s easing a finger into his ass with a tiny wince.

Lance grins up at him when he leans down closer. “Aw, I don’t get to watch?”

Keith’s breath hitches. Breaks a bit. “No,” he grits out. Because like hell he’s comfortable enough for that right now, his hand shaking - thighs shaking - core beginning to shake too as he holds himself over Lance and opens himself up.

Lance must see the struggle, must sympathize, because he licks his lips and eases Keith’s body down on top of his own. “Fine, fine…” he teases, fingertips pressing lightly as he snakes his hands down Keith’s back and settles them over the curve of his ass.

Keith’s hips buck forward, the surprise squeeze enough to have his eyes opening wide before fixing onto Lance’s pleased grin - the fucker.

“I love your ass,” he says as explanation, giving another squeeze. “Been tryin’ to be good since I met you but-” he lets out a breath through pursed lips, shaking his head to himself as he peeks over Keith’s shoulder, “God _damn,_ sweetheart…”

It’s a compliment that goes straight to Keith’s dick, only helped more by the fill of the second finger inside of him. And fuck...again...how Lance can just say shit like this so confidently-...

Keith grabs blindly for the lube, getting nothing but blanket until finally hitting the bottle and tossing it up to Lance.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist- although, Lance _is_ practically a rocket scientist, so it’s not like that phrase has any traction here-

The cap flicking open scatters Keith’s thoughts, derailed from the beginning, and it’s the slick sound of Lance prepping himself with a little breathy grunt that has Keith pulling his fingers out of himself, _way_ too ready for something as hot as that to bring everything to a screeching halt.

And shit, “It’s way too late for this, but you clean?” Keith feels a little dumb asking, but it’s better late than never.

Lance nods, pulling a rag out the drawer to wipe his hand with and tossing it over to Keith, “Definitely clean. You?”

“Yep.”

“Great.”

And then Lance is surging forward, pinning Keith on his back on the end of the bed and pulling one of his legs up to hook around his hip. It’s the mother of all headrushes but Keith embraces it with the adrenaline spike and dip in his pulse because _yes-_

“May I?”

“Fuck yes.”

And Lance is so quick to line himself up and wet his lips and Keith’s ready for his heart to jump right out of his throat because-

_Fuck._

_Oh fuck - oh fuck oh fuck-_

Keith’s eyes squeeze shut, mouth dropping open as Lance slides into him fully because holy-

“Oh-...” Lance’s voice has gone dark, labored - “Oh my _god, Keith…”_

The heat that spreads is overwhelming, and his vision is whiting out at the corners when his eyes aren’t even open, and-

And then Lance starts to _move._ Actually _move._ And Keith thinks he might be on the verge of coming already from all the buildup but that’s dumb because it’s just a hookup but it’s _not_ just a hookup because it’s-

“Lance- fuck, you gotta go faster...”

His wish is answered, the gentle rhythm of Lance’s hips picking up into something more steady - more solid - _way_ more eager as the bed creaks in time and shit, yes, just like that...

Lance’s head drops low, the moan that finds its way to Keith’s ears sounding absolutely nothing like the ones he knows from blowing him. This is _way_ different. _Way_ more eager and honest and holy shit, is it hot. Is _he_ hot. He’s literally never known anyone hotter than Lance and he’s finally able to say it now that he’s single and available and meeting his thrusts with a kind of fervor that’s borderline desperate. Borderline risky. But shit, if Keith doesn’t have a single ounce of self control left in him after all this time...

“Fuck,” he breathes out, the sweat beginning to gather at his hairline as he chances a look up at Lance, “God, don’t stop.”

Lance’s grin is so dirty it hurts, his eyelids heavy and chest heaving as he rolls his hips into Keith. “Yeah?” So breathy. “You like that?”

“Love it…”

“Fuck.” He buries his face in Keith’s neck. Mumbles some shit Keith doesn’t understand but doesn’t care to because the slightly different angle is hitting some outrageously good spots that have his back arching off the sweaty sheets.

And Keith’s never been a huge fan of dirty talk up until this very moment in time. Because he’s never heard _Lance’s_ dirty talk up until this very moment in time.

“God, mami...so fucking good…” It helps, of course, when it’s said right up against his ear like that.

Keith flattens his hands down Lance’s back - appreciates the transition from his broad shoulders to the curve of the small of his back - plants both his hands there and encourages Lance’s hips to go faster - harder - his body pitching upward with every thrust and it’s almost too much. Almost too much to wrap his mind around when all it wants to focus on is the heat pooling pleasantly between his legs.

Keith’s entire body trembles, the combination of their heavy breath and the creaking bed drowning out the music above them - around them - heat washing over them and Keith bites his lip to hold himself back as Lance reaches between them to wrap his hand around him because _shit-_

“I’m close,” Lance warns first, voice growing higher and breathier with every snap of his hips. “Fuck- Fuck, Keith I’m close-”

“Come on-”

“Keith-”

“Don’t stop-”

The pullout at the last minute is rough but Keith’s already rolling into it, because Lance’s mouth is dropping open and he’s squeezing his eyes shut and Keith plunges over the edge right after him, white-hot and out of control and the pleasure that washes over his entire body is something that he hasn’t felt in a long fucking time - maybe not ever - but it’s so fucking good that he can’t hold it back because _yes-_

_Yes, yes, yes, holy shit._

Fucking finally.

The breath Lance lets out is as shaky as Keith’s, a hand reaching up to run through sweaty hair. And they just kind of look at each other for a moment...just kind of take it all in...and then Lance collapses onto the bed next to him with a satisfied groan.

And Keith…

He’s…

“That...just happened…”

It slips out. And sounds just as astounded as Keith feels. And it has Lance chuckling quietly beside him, grabbing the rag to help clean Keith’s front. And…

It did. It just happened.

They just... _slept together._

“You sound shocked,” Lance grins, chest still rising and falling as they catch their breath. “Should we do it again until you aren’t shocked anymore?”

It’s a joke but Keith’s still processing. Is still coming down from the rush of it all.

“You just fucked me.”

“I did.”

“Like... _hard.”_

“Could go harder,” Lance informs matter-of-factly, tossing the rag to the bottom of the bed and tilting his head toward him. “Just for the record.”

Keith nods shortly. Noted.

“Are you having a stroke right now?”

It’s enough of a tease to snap him out of it, at least from the first level, Keith pushing his shoulder but not enough to hurt. “Shut up.”

“No, I mean-... Like...it’s kinda cute-”

“What?”

“You, being all,” Lance gestures toward him with a flat hand, “Like...is this how you always are after sex? Because if so…”

Keith frowns - buries his face in the pillow but is thankful that at least his face can’t possibly get any redder.

“Aw, jesus christ!”

“Shut up, Lance.”

He just needs a second. Just needs half a breath to let it sink in. To let his brain fully appreciate what just happened.

They just slept together.

Lance just fucked him.

No big deal.

Right?

“I know you’re taking a second, but you’re gonna let me eat you out at some point, right?”

And oh.

Nope, Keith was wrong.

He can definitely get redder.

* * *

 


	8. Black Cloud

When Keith stirs awake, sun streaming across his eyelids, it's not to the view of his wall, or his open window, or his ceiling.

It has him sitting up with a start, the unfamiliar mattress groaning sharply under his weight as he struggles to get his bearings - to blink away the haze over his vision and focus on the room around him.

Star Wars poster.

Dark bed sheets.

He’s…

The little flutter of realization hits him heart-first, then up to his brain. Like a caffeine rush without a single sip of coffee.

This is Lance’s room. He’s in Lance’s bed. After…

Keith can’t fight the little grin that tugs at the curve of his mouth, a hand coming to cover it up just in case because… Oh shit, they slept together. That’s right.

The ceiling fan above him slowly rotates as he sits, its pull string dancing gently through a breeze it can't escape. It ensures the constant floating circulation of the distinct cologne/shampoo combo he’s embarrassingly familiar with now - could pick out of a lineup without a second’s hesitation.

Speaking of…where _is_ Lance?

The far off ghost of a melody hitting its climax filters in through the crack in the door, right on time. Keith pulls himself out from under the sheets. Finds his underwear near the nightstand and slips it back on. Examines his crop top with an unimpressed frown until his eyes land on the t-shirt laid out on end of the bed...for _him?_

He glances up, searching around the room like the answer will be waiting for him, and then lets his eyes rest back on the white Adidas shirt.

Hm…

Mewtew passes him without a glance in the hallway as he makes his way down. His crop top is crumpled in one hand, the other messing through his hair as the melody filters through brighter in the kitchen.

Keith doesn’t recognize it.

Definitely recognizes the smell of eggs.

Recognizes Lance’s humming even more.

It’s coming from where he stands at the stove, gently scooting the pillows of forming scrambled eggs around with a spatula, his head nodding absentmindedly to the light guitar strum. And for a brief moment, Keith feels both super comfortable and very very out of place. Like he’s seeing something he maybe shouldn’t be seeing. Something that isn’t for him.

“Huh…” he murmurs, casually leaning against the doorframe when Lance turns from the stove. “Got your brunch club coming over or something?”

His question goes unanswered for a breath - for a split second that has the roaming eyes confirming that yes, this shirt is really long on him - and then Lance is smiling at him like he’s personally trying to beat out the sun. “What mami, you don’t eat eggs?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The guitar’s melody lifts to the ceiling...floats to where the curtains are dancing in the open window, sun rays streaming in sweetly.

It’s very-...

“You’re pullin’ a face - what is it?”

Keith shakes his head. Crosses his arms. “Nothing, just…” How does he say this? “You’re being so…” -what’s the word- “... _husband_ -y.”

It’s not _exactly_ the word he wanted, but it pulls a chuckle from Lance as he swirls the spatula around in the pan. “Husband-y? Making breakfast is husband-y?”

“I mean…” Keith shrugs, “Yeah...it really is.”

Lance opts to pop a hip out, flinging the towel he’s using as a potholder over his shoulder. “So what you’re telling me is no one’s ever made food for you after bangin’? Not one hook-up ‘n cook-up?”

The urge to laugh is real, but Keith keeps it under wraps for the sake of appearance. “Hook-up ‘n cook-up,” he repeats, “Holy shit, did you come up with that on your own?”

“Ah ah ah,” the spatula twirls in his direction. “You’re avoiding the question.”

That’s fair. “I’m just curious. And no, no one’s ever done that.”

Lance’s head flies back like he’s just been told a piece of devastating information. It’s insulted, you could almost say. “Well _fuck,_ dude. It’s happening. I’ma be your first.”

Keith rolls his eyes but it’s through a small grin - appreciated. “Well aren’t I blessed…”

“You are. So stop inching toward your wallet and shit because I drove you here anyway and we’re at least eating before I drive your ass back.”

Keith laughs at this one - allows it for the sake of keeping the mood lighter and more comfortable than _any_ morning-after he’s had to deal with. Usually it’s a chore. But this - Lance hands him a plate of eggs on a small red plate with a grin - this, Keith can vibe with for sure.

They eat on the balcony, the beautiful weather too good to pass up for even one moment. Keith leans against the railing, poking at the flecks of color among the fluffy yellow eggs.

“Why’s this spicy…”

Lance makes a hum of recognition, his hand coming up to cover his full mouth as he speaks through it, “S’the pico,” notes the look of confusion, tacks on: “de gallo?”

Keith glances back down at his complimentary breakfast, the morning breeze casting his bangs across his forehead. “You put pico de gallo in eggs?”

“I do when my sister drops off a shit ton on the weekly.” He scoops another mouthful, consulting his own plate as he swallows. “I end up putting it in a lot of stuff actually. To get rid of it, you know? Hunk’s chill about it though.”

Keith nods to himself. Alright then. That’s _one_ tidbit of personal information to add to the books. Onto more important matters though, “Where’s he at, by the way?”

“Who, Hunk?”

“Yeah.”

“Shay’s, I’m pretty sure. Apparently that’s going well.”

Keith considers the situation. “Good enough to spend the night at the last minute.”

Lance grins. “Oh, it wasn’t last minute.”

It takes a second to process, his brain coaxed into thinking by the constant pleasant breeze. Then it connects. “You knew you were gonna do that ice cube routine?”

“For a while,” he says, grin still in place but gaze on the pond further out, “Been waitin’ on it, actually.”

“Really...”

“Yeah, couldn’t risk it if you weren’t down.”

Keith rises an eyebrow. “Down...?”

Lance shoots him a chuckle. “To fuck?”

He says it so freely. So amused and light-hearted now that the tension around the idea must be cleared from his mind.

It has the corners of Keith’s mouth curling once again, like they had when he first woke up and remembered the night before. “Well thank god for Hunk, then.”

“For real.”

“Nothing worse than a roommate who doesn’t leave so you can get busy.”

“Right? He’s the best - he leaves for me _all_ the-...time...” he barely gets the last part out before his free nature on the matter drops off into a look of self-regulation. “That...was kinda gross - pretend I didn’t say that.”

Keith shrugs. Although he’s having a bit of a hard time letting it go now that he’s got the mental image of Lance bringing people home to hook up with on the regular.

Nyma, probably too.

Wow. Why is that bugging him so much? He needs to let that girl live.

“So anyway… You got plans this morning or are Mewtew and I gonna have company at the cat park?”

Another wave of early autumn breeze wafts through Keith’s hair, washing away the negative thoughts as well in favor of a more amusing one. Breakfast...clothes sharing...cat parks…? “Husband-y…” he sing songs under his breath, eyebrows raising as he directs his gaze downward.

It’s mostly to avoid the scoff. “Mami, seriously? Again with that?”

“You’re the one acting like a newly-wed.”

“Well excuse me for trying to be a decent person.” Hook, line, and sinker. “Not my fault no one’s treated you right before.”

Oh. Too much of a sinker.

Keith rolls his eyes with a smirk. “You wanna treat me right, the least you could do is gimme a shirt that fits.”

“That totally fits you.”

“This is a dress on me.”

“It’s fine. Jesus, the world could use a break from your ass anyway.”

Keith sends him a knowing smirk. “Thought you _loved_ my ass…”

Lance sends it right back. “Did I _say_ I didn’t? I said the world could use a break. Meaning you can’t be at a 10 on the hotness scale all the time.”

“Why?” He leans an elbow against the railing near his arm. _“You_ are.”

Lance’s rebuttal is on the tip of his tongue when it gets stuck. When his mouth opens and the beginning of it rushes out but then stops in its tracks, leaving his smirk to slowly die out into something less heated and more vulnerable and wait-

Wait, hang on. Did Keith just win that?

“Yeah well…”

Holy shit, he did. He just won that. He just out-flirted Lance for the first time in his life.

“I’ll go to the cat park on one condition.” He’s gracious in his victory, redirecting the conversation for Lance’s sake. It’s only fair after all the times it’s been redirected for him.

Lance has an astronomically easier time walking off his fluster. “One condition, huh? Lemme guess, you want a different shirt.”

Keith grins, “Yes,” then adds on: “And also we need to stop for coffee on the way.”

His terms are set. Waiting to be answered.

Lance simply shakes his head fondly, looking up into the sky before pushing off the railing of the balcony toward the door. “Alright then mami, let’s go.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

The cat park is chill.

Mewtew prances along making friends while her owner gets hit on left and right by girls in premature fall fashion.

Keith just sits back and enjoys the weather...sips his iced coffee...observes the flirting and revels in the hidden knowledge that he and Lance fucked not even twelve hours ago.

These girls don’t even know. About that. About how much of a handful Lance can be even on his best days. About the spot under the joining of his inner thigh that makes his toes curl. They have no idea. Just like they have no idea that it’s too early in the season for chunky sweaters and knee-high boots and scarves, the sweat beginning to shine across their faces as they make attempts at hitting on Lance.

Keith lounges against the park bench in his new shirt selection, legs crossing as he takes a sip from his straw.

No better place to be catty than the cat park.

 

* * *

 

**pidge**

_keith_

**i have news**

_news? or News™?_

**News™**

_ok hang on one second. i have to finish something really quick._

**ok**

_ok what’s the News™?_

**lance and i slept together**

_kEITH._

**last night**

**and i told shiro that i was at your place so dont narc on me if it comes up**

_w o  o    o w   where do i begin_

**he did this whole crazy routine for me in front of everybody at the club**

_are you serious_

_how did shiro react_

**wasnt there**

_oh that explains it_

_so wait. because my brain’s fried. you guys hooked up at work?_

**no**

**no no he did the routine and then took me home**

_ooh. damn i’m proud of you. you did it keith._

**thanks?**

_you got the d_

**wow**

_thank you for sparing me the details btw_

**no problem**

**i just needed to tell someone before i exploded**

_lol lucky me_

_but seriously congrats. can i bake you a cake?_

**ok now i cant tell if youre being an asshole or not**

**leaning towards yes but also leaning towards telling you the dick muffin story**

_im too afraid to ask_

**he sent me a premature dick pic and apologized by bringing me a muffin at work**

_you are seriously so weird sometimes_

_if this is what the dating scene is like i’m so glad i’m not in it_

**yet**

_ever_

**theres gonna be a cute nerdy girl in one of your classes one of these days**

_ok i’m leaving goodbye keith congrats on getting boned_

**lame**

**ttyl**

 

* * *

 

 

The leaves are starting to turn.

Autumn is Keith’s favorite season. He just can't get enough of the colors and the smells and the overall feeling but somehow, it’s not the same this year. Something just feels...off.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s at a different job.

Maybe it’s the fact that there are people in his life who weren’t there last autumn.

Because _last_ autumn was probably one of the best he’s ever had. The weather was great and he wasn’t particularly stressed about anything and he and Isaac were in the middle of their good-stretch. Their period of time where the arguing was minimum, if any. The massing of days and nights where everything just sort of clicked and fell into line and they functioned as a positive, productive couple that couldn’t imagine being without one another.

Their good-stretch.

They spent a lot of their fall good-stretch hyping themselves up for Halloween. Making plans for beer fests and haunted shit and drive in movies that they ended up fooling around during more than actually watching. The anticipation was real - they could both feel it as the days to October began to thin.

And Keith was happy.

Really...really...happy.

And now he’s here, scrolling through the drive-in movie lineup on his phone in the dark.

And it’s not the same.

 

* * *

 

 

_hey babe. i know you’re mad at me but there’s a cemetery here that looks just like the one we snuck into last year. the one where you pretended to twist your ankle so i would carry you around? got the trees and everything. made me think of you._

 

* * *

 

 

Work is dragging.

Blue moves across the stage in slow motion...arms spreading...fingers gradually curling out.

Keith feels like he’s just swallowed one of those laced shots from Nyma’s party, but there’s not a single drop of _anything_ in his system.

So he moves on autopilot.

Fills glasses...

Swipes cards...

Waits patiently until work is over and he can pull Lance to the corner, pressed between the wall and Lance’s chest, and: “Take me home...”

Lance is already looking at him. Already observing.

And Keith knows what the chemicals in his brain are slowly trying to gear up for. So, again, arms looped around his neck and lips to his ear, “Take me home…” pressing tight, “Fuck me like you did last time…”

Home is a long ways away.

Home is filled with Hunk’s friends.

So Home turns out to be the backseat.

Home turns out to be dark, shadowed by the forest preserve trees that block out the lights but not the moon. Not the slick sheen of sweat across their bodies. Not the glint in Lance’s eyes as he fucks into him, gaze unwavering and towering above.

It’s not easy. The space is limited and the seat isn’t super wide but it doesn’t stop them, the car rocking on its wheels as Keith’s body pitches up with every thrust. It’s not easy but it has the endorphins popping off in Keith’s head like he knew it would - the adrenaline - the fire and the energy to voice his pleasure and: “Ohh- fuck, Isaac...”

Keith’s eyes snap open wide, dread pooling in his stomach as Lance’s hips slow and _shit - shit shit shit -_ “Oh m-... Fuck, I’m sorry-” slow to nothing- “I dunno where that came from.”

Lance swallows...blinks as his gaze thoughtfully drops away for a second before coming back up. “...it’s fine,” he says, chest still rising and falling as heavily as Keith’s, “It happens, right?”

And Keith’s _this_ close to losing it - to pulling away and out the steamed up windows and puking his guts up into the forest preserve because what the _fuck._ But then Lance is moving again - slowly easing in and out at first, before picking back up. And Keith doesn’t know what’s going on in either of their brains, but the moan that it pulls out of him makes him want to disappear into the ground and never come back up.

 

* * *

 

 

He pushes it out of his mind.

Pretends it didn’t happen at all.

Forgets the troubling irony of how things are beginning to come full circle.

 

* * *

 

 

On a Monday like this one, Isaac and Keith snuck into that cemetery after dark. But tonight, Keith’s at the bar, finally convinced by Lance to join the weekly get-together that this place down the street closes off for just Lady A’s employees. It’s actually an interesting idea, Keith had realized within the first twenty times he was pestered into coming. The chance to go out on the weekend is drastically slim, since their place of work _is_ the place people go out to on the weekend. So when else are they supposed to get together and drink?

Mondays, apparently.

Keith is just fine with that.

Except for the fact that Lance isn’t here.

He sends him a few hourglass emojis, leaning up against the bar and nodding to where the dancers have congregated over by the booth seats, heckling him to come sit. It’s not the first time he’s had to awkwardly acknowledge their attention, and judging by their running track record, it probably won't be their last. If he’s gonna be honest, he had no idea these guys even really knew who he _was._

It’s great for getting his nerves right on up there.

**lance wtf**

**im finally here dont bail on me**

He didn’t allot for taking this on alone in his social-energy banks.

“Oh hey, you came tonight!”

Keith schools the tension in his shoulders, looking up from his fiery message to meet eyes with the only dancer who’s decided to get up and approach him. Right off the bat, he recognizes the smile - the dimples that cute-up the otherwise masculine face. “Oh,” he says, “hey…” Stammer. Recover. Push. “Gizmo, right?”

He probably shouldn’t have asked it because he already knows - knows the stage names of every single one of these guys, but…

“Yeah, what’s up? Why you all the way over here?”

The tone he asks it in is friendly, but Keith can’t shake the conversation he and Lance had about him a month ago… _…’Someone has a crush on you and I know who…’_

“Just taking a sec,” he comes up with, tapping his phone against the bar top, “First time and everything.”

“What’re you drinking?”

“Nothing yet.”

“How ‘bout a special?” He’s grinning, dimples at the ready.

Keith stammers through his answer. “Oh. Uhhh...sure, why not.”

It’s barely out of his mouth before Gizmo’s nodding at the bartender behind them, then leaning his arm comfortably over the bar to continue speaking.

It’s kind of surreal. To be here with all the dancers from Lady A’s except for one. The most important one. The one who told his ass to be here in the first place.

**literally any time you wanna show up thatd be great**

The drinks are slid over to them - something dark in a short glass. The ice clinks when Keith takes one, other hand reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

But, “Nah, don’t worry about it.”

Keith stalls. _Oh._ “You sure?”

“Definitely - it’s on me, Gloves.”

And there’s something weird about it - about hearing his club-name leave someone else’s mouth…

Keith doesn’t like it.

“Thanks,” he says anyway, and opts to walk it off as he’s led back to the table with everybody else before he can let it rub him the wrong way.

Alright. Game face. He can do this shit.

“Heyyy look who decided to come over.”

“Fuckin’ finally, man.”

“Yeah, what’s the deal - you scared of us or something?”

It’s all a lot at once and Keith just has to give off his nonchalant vibe - just smiles and slides in and pretends like he’s not about to crawl out of his skin. “Just needed a drink.”

Gizmo slides in after him, completing the half circle booth of people.

It’s right when Keith’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

Two texts from Lance.

_omfg i fell asleep_

_nooooo i still have an entire paper to write fmllll_

Keith can feel the oppressive cloud of dread rumbling over him - almost as unmistakable as the unfamiliar shoulders bumping against him.

No way.

**please tell me youre joking**

_D: D: D: D:_

Fucking seriously? **how longs it gonna take**

_idk i didnt rly find sources yet_

_ahhh fuck me dude im sorry_

Keith steadies himself. Takes an even breath just in case anyone’s still looking at him. Well that’s just great. It’s not like he can leave now. He’s cornered. And has a drink. And there’s not a doubt in his mind that it’d be hell trying to get out of this after finally joining everyone else at the table.

Fuck.

_Fine._

If he has to stay here by himself, he’s gonna get plastered.

Keith takes another breath, bringing the glass to his lips as he takes a long swallow and thumbs in his next text with a raised eyebrow.

**better write fast. gizmo already bought me a drink**

He knows he’s not the only one who remembers their conversation from before - knows he’s kind of an asshole for using it as leverage now - but what’s done is done. And Keith really wants Lance here. No lie.

_ahhh that fucker_

**can you do your paper later?**

_no its due at midnight_

**:(**

_mami pls_

**:...(**

_if i finish early i’ll come but i dont think im gonna_

Damn it - didn’t work. Lance cares too much about his grade. Alright, different approach then.

**ok well in the meantime i’ll be here**

**at the bar you begged me to be at**

**drinking everything gizmo buys me since youre not here**

_dang whend u become this savage_

**when you left me at a bar with a bunch of male strippers. have fun writing!**

Keith slides the message out and then tosses his phone onto the table, several thoughts running through his head at once. Like how all that probably wasn’t necessary. But...it was kind of entertaining. And if Keith knows anything about Lance, he’s probably on the other end chuckling to himself.

Right?

“So why’d it take you so long to come out with us?” Gizmo’s speaking now, a well-toned arm flung out over the back of the booth. “You been working for at least a couple months.”

Keith takes another drink. Tart. “I uh-...actually I didn’t know about it for a long time.” That’s a lie. “Had to figure it out by myself.” That’s a lie too.

Why is he lying?

“Huh, I woulda told you if I knew.”

Seriously? How could he know? “How, this is the first time we’ve ever spoken.”

The confusion in his tone has the guy in front of him raising an eyebrow… “Nnno it’s not…”

Ah shit, it’s not? Backpedal backpedal- “Oh wait,” Keith’s lying on purpose now, nodding to himself like he’s recalling what he actually isn’t, “Yeah, I remember now. My bad.”

But Gizmo’s just smiling teasingly, “Yeah? What am I talking about then?”

And yep. He’s got him. Jesus… See this is why Keith needs the buffer of a third party.

“It’s cool,” he’s laughing before Keith can suffer too much longer. “It was when you first started working. You seemed kinda out of it anyway.”

His chuckle is disarming, but Keith’s still on edge. “Uh...yeah, sorry. A lot of shit was going on then…”

“Don’t worry about it.” The music jacks up a little, vibrating in Keith’s chest. “Just worry about what you want to drink next.”

It pairs with the odd vibration of nerves from being in an unfamiliar setting.

And the warm tingle of flirting with an unfamiliar guy.

And Keith sits back, taking a long...long...sip of an unfamiliar drink.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

An hour passes.

Drinks empty and refill.

And Keith's actually not having too terrible of a time.

Gizmo is honestly a pretty cool guy. And actually, it’s Jack, because Keith breaks down ten minutes in and asks him his real name because he can’t possibly go on living his life calling him something as stupid as Gizmo.

So Jack, yeah. He’s pretty cool. Lives in Chicago...didn’t go to college...likes all the things Keith’s attracted to because he was right, Jack’s way more his type than any of the other dancers. There just must be something about Keith that attracts these bad-boy archetypes. He’s never known what it is, but isn’t exactly going to change it if he ever does figure it out.

Anyway. Jack. It takes Keith a while to understand his particular brand of humor, but the liquor helps. Like a lot. It helps with a bunch of stuff actually.

“So where’s Blue at tonight?”

Like the ability to answer automatically with a solid: “Why’re you asking _me?”_

Which prompts Jack to pause, think, and then say, with a creeping smile on his face. “What...aren’t you guys together?”

And in other circumstances, Keith would probably short circuit a little before an answer had any hopes of seeing the light of day. But right now, two and a half specials swimming warmly in his system, he simply shoots him a mischievous grin. “Sooo...you’re buying me shit knowing we’re dating?”

It’s not the thing to say. Like, at all. And Keith can count out on his fingers the reason why.

1) For starters, he and Lance _aren’t_ dating.

2) If they were, he could’ve said something that confirmed it instead of egging on the fact that Jack’s buying him drinks.

And 3) _since_ he didn’t do that, it’s pretty much consent for Jack to _continue_ to buy him drinks, which isn’t a problem in the first place but is because now apparently Keith and Lance are dating.

And so, as stated above, that was _not_ the thing to say. But Keith said it. And is a toasty two-and-a-half-specials in. And it’s got the tingle firing up again.

**i just did a questonable thing**

He sends it off- realizes his mental reasoning had him spacing out for Jack’s reply - _realizes_ he doesn’t really care because the actual reply he’s waiting for is coming in now.

_just one?_

Keith smiles to himself, nodding as Jack tells him he’s going to get another drink.

**gizmo asked if were dating and i didnt say no**

A pause.

_he asked if u guys are dating?_

What? **no yuo and me**

**he thinks we’re dating**

Another pause. Longer this time. Keith wonders if he scared him off.

Then: _hows that gonna work when ur already mewtews husband_

It has a laugh bubbling up from Keith’s chest, his smile hurting his cheeks. God, Lance is hilarious.

_guess it doesnt look good to have someone buying my bf drinks_

**nope guess you gotta come down here**

Jack talks to one of the other dancers at the bar as he waits. As Keith waits. As the dim lights dim even more. Maybe it’s just Keith’s waning sense of physical stability.

_halfway done_

**gonna b e too drunk by then**

_then wait for me mami_

He can’t deny his heart doing a little flippy thing in his chest, grin curling sweetly. He types his answer in while he still can, then places his phone back on the table in time for Jack and the next rounds to settle in next to him.

**you better hurry papi**

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

The thing about drinking with strangers is it’s easy to loosen up - to act in a way that someone who knows you might question. It’s how Keith gets the confidence to flirt, up close and personal. Because three hours ago he was stumbling over his own drink order, but now - an unknown number in - he’s flying high. Feeling past loose. Leaning against Jack’s side in the middle of the booth because everyone else has vacated to go talk in separate groups.

It leaves the two of them alone, Jack’s arm resting against the flat top of the booth just a touch above Keith’s shoulders.

And Keith knows it’s not fair, what he’s doing. Knows Jack likes him and knows he’s taking advantage of it without intending to take it any further, but it’s always nice to feel wanted - sought after. The buzz of being flirted with is undeniably exciting and vibes well with the sway in his brain.

Plus it’s not like Jack isn’t in the wrong too. Fuck, he’s the one flirting with Keith thinking he’s already taken. By a fellow dancer, no less.

So yeah. It’s not entirely Keith’s fault. Or entirely Keith’s doing. And he revels in the thrill of Jack’s eyes never leaving him once as he presses forward.

“I like these,” he hums, fingers tracing slowly over the tattoos on his exposed shoulder. They’re thickly-lined. Oddly reminiscent of Isaac’s. “When’d you get this one...?”

Jack glances down, making more room for Keith to feel. “Couple months ago... Like it...?”

“Mhm...”

“Yeah...?”

“Yeah, it’s-...” what’s the word...without sounding too thirsty…

There _is_ no word. Keith just stops himself there.

Gizmo chuckles, voice deep in his ears. “Wanna see another one?”

The possibility sounds amazing, Keith nodding without hesitation and eyes lighting up when Jack lifts the side of his shirt. Because this one’s bigger - much clearer now that he can look at it up close and not from behind the bar at Lady A’s.

Keith hums in appreciation, fingers dropping down to trace over the swirl of black ink that cascades down the notches of Jack’s ribs, the muscles flexing underneath his touch. “Must’ve hurt…”

“Mm...not too bad…”

“I wanna get one.”

“Oh yeah? Where you thinkin’?”

Keith’s just about to indulge when his phone clatters on the table, its screen lighting up their faces.

 _New Message - just now_ _  
_ _Lance_

It brings things to a halt, Keith’s hand dropping and the shirt falling back over the ink because-

Ooo, Lance.

“Sorry, hang on.”

“It’s cool,” Jack assures, just as distractable. Then, “Actually, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Keith nods, waiting for him to leave (and possibly admiring his backside - you can’t really blame him - he’s drunk and knows how all these hot guys look almost-naked) before swiping open the message.

_mami mami up to no good_

He reads it over. A few times, just to be certain. And there’s a mystery to it that makes Keith smirk.

**?**

_guess EVERYONE thinks we’re dating_

_bc here i am tryin to write this stupid paper_

_and im gettin blown up with ppl telling me u and gizmo are gettin cozy_

_whats up with that huh_

Keith’s smirk deepens. Wait, really? Is he serious? **yea right**

_dont underestimate sweetheart_

_theyre sendin pics_

Wow. He _was_ underestimating. Wonder what the pictures are...probably nothing too bad but…

**i w ant u here**

_howr u getting home_

**jack prob**

_who?_

Keith blinks. What? Wait - oh yeah. **gizzmo**

_uh huh on a first name basis i see_

The light from the bathroom edging into the dark bar has Keith glancing back up, the walls spinning pleasantly around him as he sets his phone down before he can read the next incoming message.

And for a moment - for a split second - the lights and the reddish hue and the dark shadows play on Jack’s face as he grows closer, eyes on Keith as his jawline and cheekbones and the curve of his nose morph into someone painfully familiar.

Keith’s stomach sinks. Comes back up. Forces him to blink it away even as Jack slides back into the booth, frown obvious.

“What is it?”

And then it’s done. It’s cut out with his voice.

Keith shakes it out of his head, wetting his bottom lip and searching the table for a suitable answer that instead somehow ends up coming out as: “We should take shots.”

It’s the breakneck slip that gets him up at the bar with several other dancers, all with a shot of rum in both hands. It’s what gets him shooting them back with zero inhibition, the others going for it as well before high fiving each other and pushing with friendly nudges.

It’s what gets Keith’s feet tripped up, the combination of the rush and the bodies and everything else that gets him with an arm around him - a helpful grunt and an even more helpful personal crutch as he’s moved along.

It’s what gets them back at the booth.

Keith’s phone is still here. He didn’t realize he left it. Still...doesn’t really realize he left it because the room is spinning. But it’s nice. And Jack doesn’t look like Isaac anymore. Except for the fact that he still does. A lot. It goes in and out like his ability to focus.

But he’s really warm - Keith, that is. He’s really warm with all this alcohol in his system and the arm still slung around his shoulder and it feels so fucking nice that he leans into it. Because that’s what he did with Isaac when he was this drunk and Isaac didn’t have a problem with it so Jack shouldn’t either, right? That makes sense, yeah?

He murmurs something - Jack, that is.

He murmurs something but Keith can’t hear him - keeps his body slotted into him but lifts his head to look up at him - space thinning.

“What…?”

Jack smiles. Warm breath. Their cheeks brush just the slightest bit as he leans close to speak in his ear, voice low but easy to hear over the music now.

“I said you’re really cute…”

It lingers. Both the compliment and Jack. And then he pulls back and Keith finds himself staring again, letting his head tilt a bit as he eyes him across the truly tiny space left between them.

He doesn’t know what to say. How to react.

Doesn’t have a lot of time to worry about it because Jack’s leaning in again, lips brushing against his ear. “You wanna get outta here?”

It sets Keith’s pulse skyward.

Jack doesn’t pull away this time, making it easier for Keith to lean in too, cheeks brushing. “Like...leave? Or _leave_ leave?”

It makes sense in his head and Jack chuckles, so it must make sense to him too, his hand coming up to rest against the side of Keith’s neck as he pulls him in to speak again. “Whichever ‘leave’ gets you under me quicker.”

Keith swallows.

Oh.

 _Leave_ leave.

“Uh…”

He doesn’t want to _leave_ leave.  But he’s been flirting the entire night.  And Isaac never really cared if he wanted to _leave_ leave or not - they’d always leave regardless - so does that mean Jack isn’t going to take no as an answer either?

“Kinda wanna stay here,” Keith slurs together, leaning away but not enough to pull out from under his shoulder. “You’re not...having fun or something...?”

“Course I am.” Jack doesn’t reel him back in like Isaac would. But he still looks like him. “Course I am, just-...wanna have _different_ fun with you, ya know?”

Keith nods. Oh, he knows. He could drink an entire bottle of Bacardi and still notice this dude’s bedroom eyes.

“Hey…” Jack’s taking him in now, appreciation blatant, “if you’re worried about Blue...he doesn’t have to know…”

And it’s the nonchalant way he says it - like he’s said it a hundred other times to a hundred other people - _that’s_ what gets Keith. _That’s_ what makes his stomach turn a touch sour, thoughts scattering unhelpfully in his head until the noise in front of him filters in and makes sense.

It’s the dancers. All excited. All smiling and nodding and making it very obvious in their own bro-tastic way that they’re glad to see-

“Blue! What the fuck took you so long?”

Keith’s vision zeroes in on him as he steps through the people like some sort of biblical being, his smile lighting the entire room as he says his hellos...does a few bro-y handshakes...leans in to one of the dancers he talks to the most and then lets his eyes trail to the back, settling right on Jack. And then Keith.

He nods and pats the dancer on the back and Keith’s already on the move, already pulling away and kneeing out of the half circle booth just in time for him to make it back and-

“Lance!” He’s warm and sturdy under his drunken hold as Keith crowds him for a hug because how _couldn’t_ he? How the fuck could he _not?_ This is just so unexpected and-

“Whoa,” Lance is chuckling, but there’s real surprise there. Like he doesn’t expect the passion behind the side-embrace that isn’t letting up. “Feelin’ good, huh buddy?”

Keith nods, burying his face in Lance’s neck because honestly it feels like he’s been without him for ten days. And seeing him now...here...when he thought he wouldn’t...fuck, Keith can feel it light up his entire chest.

“How’s it goin man.”

Lance’s body twists a bit with the inclusion of Jack’s voice coming close - a handshake that pulls into a half-chest bump or some shit - Keith doesn’t really care because he’s too caught up with breathing in the familiar notes of Lance’s cologne.

“You two play nice?” Lance asks, and Keith may be distracted, but not enough to miss the hand that comes to wrap around him and settle on his waist.

Jack’s voice is tripping in and out of his brain. Laughing but slightly off. “Yeah, of course, Blue.”

“I started shots,” Keith grins into his neck as elaboration, eyes closed.

It has Lance humming in understanding. “Oh, so _that’s_ why you’re so shitfaced…”

“Mhm.”

“Got it. And here I thought someone was buyin’ you drinks or something.” The last of it is said with no malice, but an unmistakable sense of purpose - direction - his neck craned and head turned to look straight at Jack.

Then silence.

Lots of silence.

And _oh,_ that’s kind of interesting, isn’t it? This calmly aggressive side of Lance? Keith’s chest thinks so - dick _definitely thinks so._

“Well,” Lance is at it again, his free hand coming to pat shortly against Jack’s shoulder, “good thing Gizmo was here to keep things legit, right? Thanks man.”

It’s the dramatic irony that makes it so delicious. The fact that the only one who doesn’t know Lance knows is Jack. Except, something tells Keith he definitely knows now, judging by the forced smile on his face.

“Not a problem.”

“Catch you tomorrow then, yeah?”

“You’re not staying?”

“Just here for the pickup.” He squeezes his hold around Keith’s waist for emphasis. It makes up for the slightly depressing realization that they’re leaving.

As does the way his arm drops once they’re finally alone, and then reappears when Keith doesn’t take the social cue to move even an inch away.

 _“Fuck_ you’re clingy when you’re plastered,” he laughs, good-natured even as Keith pulls his head away to look up at him.

“That was hot.”

“What.”

“You. You’re like...super hot when you’re possessive...” he grins through it, mischievous and swaying a bit out of balance.

Lance straightens his hold to keep him upright. “Allllright, time to get you home.”

But Keith’s got other plans - had already decided several minutes ago _exactly_ where their next stop will be. So it makes perfect sense in his head when he breaks off, grabbing Lance’s hand and pulling him in the opposite direction, the music overwhelming in his ears for a brief moment until he holds a hand out to push through the swinging bathroom door.

And then it’s bright. It’s white light and the music is muffled except for the bass and Lance murmurs what must be a bathroom joke before Keith is hurtling them around, Lance stumbling backward into the stall first - hands gripping the sides to keep his balance and then Keith is on him. Finally. Fucking _finally._

Lance’s hum of honest surprise against his mouth goes straight to Keith’s pants, his voice echoing off the walls of the empty bathroom. Empty for now, at least. And Keith’s going to take full advantage of that.

“Wh-...” Lance’s breath is already staggered, heavy as Keith drops to his knees in front of him, “Jesus-” hands scrambling down to fall over his belt line as Keith tugs his zipper down and- “W- hang on. Jesus, hang on, Gloves.”

Keith waits but he’s not happy about it. Is _this close._ Wants his dick in his mouth like three minutes ago.

“Lemme blow you-”

“You’re-...” Lance eyes the stall with increasing judgement. “What, _here?”_

Like Keith’s not already on his knees. Like he hasn’t already committed to being on the stall floor in a bar bathroom. Like Lance has never had someone suck him off in here before. “Here.”

“...this...doesn’t really seem like your thing-”

“It’s my thing,” Keith tugs the top of Lance’s jeans down over his ass, the outline of his dick pushing temptingly against his boxer briefs. “S’definitely my thing…”

And shit...his mouth is watering.

Lance’s counter argument gets stuck in his throat as Keith leans forward - brushes his lips against the hardness through the dark fabric - mouths his way down the outline, breath hot and damp.

“God…” Lance breathes out above him, eyes shutting as a last form of self control, “...s-...so drunk…”

And Keith thinks he’s been patient enough - has sat here without a dick in his mouth for as long as he can take - which makes it even more satisfying when he slips his fingers under the waistband of Lance’s briefs and pulls, finally getting what he wants with an eager hum.

Lance’s hips stutter forward - just a little - just enough to pair with the beautiful sound of his breath rushing out of his lungs in concentrated release.

Keith hums again, smirking around his cock as he bobs his head to the pulse in his ears. And yes, he’s super drunk. So yes, the constant movement is having the walls drag to keep up. But fuck, if Keith’s not gonna peek up and enjoy the looks of pleasure dancing across Lance’s face as he glances down at him.

Because yes.

Yeeees.

This is what he wanted.

Keith wouldn’t do this shit for Gizmo but he’d _definitely_ do it for Blue.

Lance’s groan is breathy as he reaches down to card his fingers through the back of Keith’s hair - still so obviously controlled given where they are. Because they’re not at home. Or even in the back of his car, for that matter. They’re here, closed in but still technically out in the open for anybody to-

The blatancy of the music growing louder and then muffling out again as the door slams has Keith freezing mid-suck, eyes flicking up to where Lance has frozen too, still bracing himself against the stall walls.

Shit.

Okay it’s cool, just remain calm.

The footsteps echo against the tile floor as they make their way toward the mirror next to the two of them. Then a squeaky faucet. Then the click of the soap dispenser. And Keith’s stock still, lips stretched around Lance’s dick as they wait.

It’s almost funny - the situation - the way Lance’s mouth remains open to slowly take in air, even as he turns his head toward the wall separating them from whichever dancer is washing their hands only a few feet away.

It’s almost funny in the way that Keith could move just one inch and Lance would immediately blow their cover. No pun intended.

The water splashes back on.

Lance lets his eyes shut.

A line of drool slips past Keith’s lips and over his chin because he can’t exactly swallow.

Then the hand dryer. Loud enough that it startles Keith and he tenses a bit and the vibration has Lance sucking in a tight breath through his nose.

Then the door. Clear music. Then muffled.

And then they’re alone.

Keith grins at him, slurping up to the head of his cock and then popping off in an obnoxious way that has Lance groaning, brows furrowed at the middle. It’s the same time the stall walls start to rush around him, then over him, then under and Keith feels it rising from his gut with just enough time to knee past Lance and to the toilet before-

…

The metal belt buckle clanks as Lance pulls his pants up and crouches behind him. Pulls off toilet paper from the roll and hands it to him. Flushes the bowl and pulls him up and tucks his hair behind his ear for him.

Keith rinses his mouth out under the sink, gargling the clean water to make Lance laugh, which he does.

“Alright,” he says, slinging Keith’s arm over his shoulder to help him walk properly. “Now it’s _really_ time to take you home.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

Keith already knows he’s going to be more embarrassed than he is right now about puking in front of Blue - probably even more embarrassed that he puked mid-blowjob - but now’s not the time for that. Now he’s out of the chaos and able to focus on how he’s way too drunk, hanging onto Lance for dear life as he slips his keys out of his pocket and gets them into his apartment.

“Special delivery,” he hears Lance say just as the familiar scents of home start to waft into his senses. Which means he must be talking to-

“Oh god, what’d he drink…” Yep. There’s big bro.

“Dunno, I wasn’t there,” they’re still walking, “Just the ride.”

“Thanks for bringing him home, I can-”

“S’alright, I got him.” ...still shuffling along... “Takes like five minutes to de-cling him anyway.”

Keith can feel the guilty smile on his lips. He’s a touchy-feely drunk, what can he say?

The floorboards creak as they move along through the hallway, then turn left, which is the wrong way for-

“Here,” Keith zones back in, opening his eyes for the first time in a while. His vision settles on a toothbrush - _his_ toothbrush - already done up with toothpaste and everything. “Brush your teeth.”

Keith goes for an unconvinced groan, but it’s immediately cut off with a nagging:

“Ah ah - don’t gimme that shit, Gloves. You’re the one who just puked.”

It’s true… Keith can’t really deny that. And he’s here in the bathroom and everything already so…

Wait, _'just_ puked'? Did he puke  _again?_

“Fine,” he mumbles, grasping at air until hitting plastic and bringing it to his mouth.

He loses time doing it. Has some sort of weird out of body experience where he swears he sees himself brushing his teeth at the sink, but also sees Lance and Shiro talking in the kitchen as a glass of water fills up.

And then Lance is back, and Keith’s really happy to see him, and he feels like he’s been brushing his teeth for three hours now but it’s already put back in the toothbrush holder and Lance reaches out, says something in Spanish and brushes his thumb over the toothpaste at the corner of Keith’s mouth and then they’re moving again. And they’re in Keith’s room. And Keith doesn’t have to be sober to notice the distinct lack of bounciness in Lance’s overall carry.

And that’s not gonna fly at _all._

“Bluuue…” he coos, turning to back Lance against the dresser with a few slow steps.

He allows it, but when Keith presses up against him, the hands don’t come to settle on his back. “I’m gonna go…”

Keith frowns. Pouts just a little. About the promise to leave and the fact he won’t return the touch. “Why’re you so grumpy…?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Go-”

“You’re grumpy like this.” He reaches up, tracing his pointer and middle fingers over the swell of Lance’s lower lip. There’s no smile there. No quirk upward. Keith runs the pad of his fingers there and bites his own bottom lip, mouths close. “...being mean to me…”

Lance sighs through his nose, the touch finally coming but only as him reaching up to gently pull Keith’s fingers away. “I’m tired,” he explains lowly, “I just wrote a six page paper in three hours and I’m just tired. Alright?”

There’s definitely exhaustion in his tone, leaving his words drawn out and monotone, but something in the back of Keith’s head makes him believe it’s not just from the paper.  

“I want you to stay,” he focuses his words to come out less slurred - more adamant as he wraps his arms around Lance’s neck. “Want you to stay with me…”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t-...” his eyes close. “Keith-”

The rest is swallowed up, their lips pressing together as Keith leans in. Because he wants him to stay. For a long time. For more than just the night. And maybe if he just keeps kissing him, he won’t have a chance to leave. It’s what makes his heart break open in his chest when he presses in even tighter, head tilting to lick past his frown and coax Lance’s tongue into a lazy, minty dance.

Lance exhales slowly in the dark...through his nose...eyes still closed. But he doesn’t put his hands on him. And he’s kissing back but it’s hesitant in reciprocation, and when Keith’s done swirling his tongue around his he breaks off...leans back...keeps his eyes closed for a second more before forcing them back open, trying to even his breathing out.

Keith swallows thickly - doesn’t know where this is going to go but has that strange, sinking feeling in his stomach again.

“Can-...can you stay?”

It’s met with silence. More silence. Then, quietly: “I gotta go.”

He steps out from the hold, moving toward the door quickly enough to strike panic where he steps and-

“Wait!” Quiet enough. Quiet enough for Shiro not to hear but- “Wait- I-...”

“It’s okay. Just go to sleep, you’ll be fine-”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“We’ll hang out tomorrow-”

“No, I-” here it comes- “I want you here-”

“Keith-”

“-I’m lonely-”

“I know.”

“I’m lonely I-... I really miss Isaac.”

“I _know.”_ Lance snaps it - snaps it but catches himself and drops his gaze and closes off for a second before shaking his head...to himself...noiseless movement in the moonlight.

It opens up the silence for Keith’s heavy pulse in his ears.

What now.

Silence silence.

What now.

“Lie down…”

Lance’s voice is soft. Redirected. So sweet in tone that Keith can’t-...

“...what?”

The breeze dances in through the window he doesn’t remember opening… Sets the pages of a nearby book aflutter...

And Lance…

“Lie down… Close your eyes…”

It’s a trick. Has to be a trick. But if it means it stops him from leaving for a couple minutes more…

Keith turns toward the bed, drifting over to it before doing as instructed, the headrush settling as he stretches out on his back.

“Close your eyes...”

Of course. Yes. If it means-...

The darkness surrounding him grounds Keith… Eases the panic in his brain… The tightness in his chest… It drapes over him and settles his pulse and he lets out a long breath, shaky at first, but then relieved of it all.

And Lance…?

The breeze picks up - dark bangs drifting - eyes opening at the presence stalling near the side of his bed, but-

Lance’s hand drops down to cover them...to shield them from the moonlight...the panic he had released out in his breath. And then, very gradually, fabric wrinkling close...

He brings their lips together, and it has a rush of air filling Keith’s lungs, his chest lifting from the mattress to follow as Lance’s lips press and then-...

And then…

They’re gone…

And Lance, hand still resting over Keith’s eyes…

“Keep ‘em closed…”

Keith swallows… Misses the touch as soon as it leaves just like Lance’s lips. But he does as he’s told. Lies and listens to his pulse and keeps his eyes fluttered closed. Because the rush of air in his chest is so light that it hurts. In a good way. In a way that he didn’t expect. And he wants Lance to stay not just because he misses Isaac… But…

Keith breathes out, body melting into the bed.

And when he opens his eyes, bangs dancing in the wind, the room is empty. And the door is closed.

And Lance is gone.

 

* * *

 

 

_hey babe. being away from you is really hard. i keep thinking about you...hoping you’re doing okay. i miss you._

_hey babe._

_being away from you is really hard._

_i keep thinking about you_

_hoping you’re doing okay_

_hey babe_

_i keep_

_being away from you is really hard_

_i keep thinking about i miss you hey_

_babe._

_i miss you babe_

_i keep thinking about being away from you i_

_hope you’re doing okay i miss you babe_

_i miss you babe hey babe i hope you’re_

_being away from you is i miss you babe i miss you babe i miss you babe i_

 

_hey babe. being away from you is really hard. i keep thinking about you...hoping you’re doing okay._

_i miss you._

 

* * *

 

 

Keith wakes up ready to die.

His head is pounding unpleasantly.

Eyes burn when he blinks them.

Throat is so dry that it hurts to swallow.

And worst of all, the memories of last night don’t give him a chance to wake up, rushing back over him all at once like a second, smothering blanket.

He lets his head fall back against his pillow, flinging an arm over his eyes to block out the sun - or maybe just the flashbacks of all the stupid shit he did hours before.

Why’d he get that drunk? Honestly, what was the point? And why’d he do half the shit he did once Lance finally came around? He bullied him into a blowjob. Bullied him into telling him what was wrong. Tried his best to bully him into staying but Lance was just so-...just so fucking _upset._ Why? Because he had to come take care of Keith’s stupid ass after writing a paper? Shit, did he even _finish_ his paper?

Keith turns with a groan, grabbing blindly for the glass of water on his bedside table and then his phone.

He fucked up.

He needs to fix it now before it eats him into an episode.

The ring of the outgoing call is harsh - blares unrelentingly inside Keith’s ear as he tugs it away from his face. It rings. And it rings. And it rings until it goes to voicemail, the automated voice rattling off numbers until he just skips right to ending the call.

Okay… Lance ignored his call… Or maybe he’s just busy?

Keith sets his phone back down on his nightstand, willing himself to pluck up enough energy to sit straight.

It takes him a full hour.

He calls again.

No answer.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

It’s kind of a hail mary but Keith shows up at Lady A’s regardless, the sun low in the sky and glinting off the rims of the familiar black car in the parking lot.

Blue’s sitting on the stage when he pushes through the doors, their click shut loud enough to echo in the quiet club, but not to catch his attention. Somehow. Because he’s just sitting there, cross-legged and staring at the pole and dressed to practice but not seeming like he’s even thought of starting.

“You avoiding me?”

Lance’s head whips around to the new presence, eyes flashing with concern but then evening off into calculated nonchalance.

It’s split second.

But Keith catches it.

“Oh, hey Gloves.”

Keith steps forward from the grouping of tables. “Hey.” Dares to just dive right in, hands in his pockets. “You weren’t picking up so...just wanted to come apologize for being so fucking annoying last night.”

Lance shakes his head, looking back down, “It’s no big deal.”

“No,” Keith takes another step, doing a little head shaking of his own, “I was super drunk - and like _way too clingy..._ I dunno, I just knew you were upset about something and, I guess I took it personally but was an idiot, so…” He’s arrived at the edge of the stage now. Is here. But Lance won’t look at him. So… “Okay, obviously it wasn’t just last night then.”

It gets him to look over. “What?”

“You’re still mad.”

Lance steadies himself through a sigh, obviously stopping an eye roll. “Dude. I’m not mad.”

“You’re _something.”_

“I’m not - I’m just tired.”

“Yeah that’s what you said last night but I still think you’re full of shit.” Keith presses his lips into a firm line. Notices the aggravation beginning to slip into his tone. He needs to ease off. “What’s up...?” Control it. “What the hell happened?”  

Lance’s focus is toward his shoe. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“It must be.”

He reties it but it’s already tight. “It’s not.”

“Well I wanna know if it does or doesn’t have something to do with me.”

“No.” They’re both tied now. Both secure. Both used up as an excuse to focus elsewhere. Which means Lance doesn’t have anything else to distract himself - doesn’t have any other way to keep from dealing with this. And... Lance sighs, defeated. “Yes.”

Keith blinks. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes it has something to do with me?”

He cracks his neck but doesn’t use the movement to look at him. “... _yes.”_

“What is it?” Keith can play this game all day. _Has_ played this game all day. With Sydney. More times than he can count. And this guy has fucking _nothing_ on her-

“You kept talking about how much you missed your ex last night.”

Keith pauses, mind stalling out for a moment because...wait, did he just say…

“You were like... _really sad_ in the car.” Lance’s voice is quiet but not timid. Directed toward the back wall. “Kept talkin’ about a bunch of shit you guys used to do. Like a...a cemetery or something? I dunno but-...” He’s shaking his head again, then taking a long breath that seems to inject a certain level of familiar nonchalance into his tone. “Like I said. Really not a big deal.”

But Keith’s frown is pulling tight, matching the uncomfortable squeeze beginning to wrap around his chest. Because wow. He doesn’t remember _any_ of that. And: “That’s...that’s shitty of me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. People get hung up on their exes all the time.”

It’s dismissing but the word choice makes his insides squirm - makes him need to correct. “Yeah, except I’m not hung up, it’s-”

“You’re hung up,” Lance is looking at him now, raised eyebrows over tired, knowing eyes. “You are definitely hung up, man.”

Keith lets his gaze stray off high to the opposite wall, his arms crossing subconsciously over the tightness in his chest. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What, you think I haven’t recognized it by now?” His chuckle is short but bitter, “You think you're the first person to use me as a hookup to get over your ex?”

It’s so bitter that it stings. That it grates against Keith and seeps into his own words. Because now things are getting twisted. Things are getting uneasy and away from him and- “Lance. Jesus christ, that’s not what I’m doing.”

“You sure? Because you _literally_ called me Isaac, to my face, more times than I could count last night.”

“That doesn’t-” Keith’s frustration is mounting- the realization upsetting and disillusioning and _fuck_ because he doesn’t remember _-_  “I’m not doing it on purpose. That’s not what this is.”

“Then _what is it?”_ Lance’s body is turning toward him now, his voice tired and aggravated and disturbingly like he’s already made up his mind. “What the fuck _is it, Keith?”_

It’s a snap that has Keith’s brows furrowing - has sour heaviness oozing through his chest and his gut because-...

He…

He doesn’t want to believe it. He didn’t do any of that shit last night. He isn’t actually an awful person. He doesn’t miss the hell out of Isaac so bad that he’s projecting him onto anyone who gives him attention or affection.

He isn’t just using Lance as a hookup while he gets over him.

He’s not.

...right?

Lance sighs, long and drawn out. He rakes a hand through his hair and tugs at the ends as he speaks...sincerely. “...sorry. You came here to apologize, and I’m being a dick.”

His apology lingers through the space Keith didn’t realize he’s put between them until now, his spine pressing into an empty chair if he takes one more step backward.

It isn’t necessary, the space. No voices were raised. All fists remained unswung. There’s no need for it, and yet...

“Do you…” Lance speaks for him - fills in the gaps as he messes with the tip of a shoelace and then lets it drop in favor of meeting his gaze. “Do you just wanna go smoke or something...? I need a break...”

It’s a shot in the dark. His own hail mary.

Keith swallows down the lump in his throat and the bile in his stomach. Tucks his hair behind his ear. Gently nods at the floor, and then stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Yeah...that’s fine.”

The sun is starting to set by the time Lance stamps out the stub of their first blunt onto the large rock he’s leaning against.

Pink…

Soft yellow…

Impending darkness.

It disappears over the horizon line, far off from their spot on the grassy hill not too far away from the club, and it’s only a matter of time before the stars join them.

Keith breathes out, smoke pierced through tight lips toward the ground. When he hands it over, arm stretched up to reach where Lance is leaning above him, the very first star peeks out from the sky.

The grass beneath him is soft. Almost silky. Maybe it’s the weed talking. He’ll accept it since it’s also what’s pulling him back down into a calmer headspace.

The tip of the blunt crackles as Lance takes a hit above him. Like it did the first time. Like it will the next time. Like it should as long as they keep this up - whatever they have - together.

As long as.

As _long as._

“The first time we finally talked...you asked me if I was avoiding you.” Keith’s calm in the moonlight, breeze carrying his voice up, even as it drops off a bit for the reveal. “I _was._ I was totally avoiding you.”

Lance’s head tilts toward him in the corner of his eye, a cloud escaping past his lips to join the ones above.

The nostalgia of it has the corner of Keith’s mouth curling gently - just a touch as he plucks a dandelion freed of its seeds from the ground in front of him. “I thought you were so cool...and so good looking...and I wanted to impress you so fucking bad…” The stem rolls past his fingers and back into the grass. But there’s nowhere for the honesty in Keith’s tone to hide this time when he says it, quietly… “I still do…”

And suddenly his chest is wide open - endless - going on forever like the sky above them, only he’s not falling this time. Anymore.

“You’re one of the coolest guys I’ve ever met, Lance,” Keith looks up to him now, not exactly confident but carrying forward regardless because he just needs to get this out. “You’re so fucking smart. And you’re stupid hilarious like _all the time_ . And I just-...” Another star peeks out from the clouds. And another. And one more. And Lance is staring at him, just as open as the sky and Keith’s chest and- “You’re not Isaac. I don’t _want_ you to be Isaac. ...honestly a good chunk of why I like you so much is because you’re the polar fucking opposite of him and it’s-... Fuck, it’s just really-…”

More stars. Lighter chest. Keith’s going to float up into them with how honestly all-in Lance looks as he listens, brows knit together almost vulnerably.

Keith lets out a long exhale, falling back until his head hits the ground.

And then it’s just stars.

And oddly comfortable grass.

And then Lance, slowly, peeking over to join the rest as he looks down over him.

Keith averts his eyes out of oncoming embarrassment, but there’s nowhere else for them to go. “What...”

“Nothing,” Lance is watching patiently, “you just didn’t finish...”

Keith huffs, fighting the urge to roll his back to him. “Why would I… You hear this shit all the time.”

The joint bobs gently in Lance’s mouth as he keeps it between his lips, “Definitely don’t…” using his hands to ease himself back and join him on the grass. “People don’t care about that shit, you know?”

“What do you mean…”

“I mean they don't _care.”_ He takes another drag, bud glowing in the dark. “Don't get the chance.”

“Before what?”

“Before they bail.”

The added warmth of his arm just an inch away has Keith facing back toward him, their shoulders nearly brushing as they both lie still. “I don't get why someone would leave you if they had you.”

Lance laughs, another bitter huff of a chuckle that begs for clarification. For _more._

Keith doesn’t have the chance.

“Anyway, sorry again for bein’ all pouty last night.”

In that same vein: “Well sorry for unintentionally dragging my ex back into things.” Keith rolls rightside up, making sure to seal that comfortable eye contact as he leans against his elbows in the grass. “And thanks for taking care of my hammered ass.”

The chuckle that bubbles up from Lance is finally real - finally back to normal and everything it should be. It does a great job at making Keith’s heart flutter annoyingly against each of his ribs. Especially when Lance reaches up, movements lazy but with a purpose, and tucks where some of Keith’s hair has fallen back behind his ear.

Honest to god, Keith can’t help the small grin of amusement as he takes the blunt.

“What...”

He mutters it under his breath, “Husband-y...”

And it’s enough to have Lance shrugging in acceptance, before clasping his hands behind his head with a grunt and looking back up into the stars. “ _Somebody’s_ gotta treat you right.”

It’s oddly sweet - sweeter than the strawberry filling Keith’s lungs as he pulls himself together and takes his hit.

The silence that follows is comfortable.

Peaceful.

Welcome with the noise that’s been blaring in Keith’s brain lately, even if it’s just for now.

Even if Lance is already talking again.

“Hey Gloves?”

“Mm.”

“I wanna roll down this hill. Like really bad.”

Because that patter against his rib cage has settled into something warm. “You're gonna hurt yourself.”

“I know, but can you Snap it?”

“Sure. Whatever you want, Blue.”

“You're the best.”

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

It doesn’t last for long.

The drive home isn’t very far but Keith hits a lot of traffic. Has to take a detour. Sits at a lot of red lights, the glow casting over his face in the dark as it all starts to sink in again - a creeping, oozing sourness that takes over his stomach as Lance’s words circle back again in his head regardless of whether he wants them to or not.

He’s not hung up on Isaac.

Except for the fact that he totally is.

Only it’s not that. ‘Hung up’ isn’t even the right way to say it. It's more like...'attached'. Because Isaac was his first actual, legitimate relationship. With actual, legitimate feelings. And actual, legitimate dreams together. And even if three years isn’t long in some people’s opinions, it is for Keith. -... _was,_ for Keith…

And they did a _lot_ of shit together when they were on their good stretches - a lot of shit that Keith can’t help but remember every time the numbers on his phone click past midnight and he’s alone, lying in the quiet waiting for-...for _something._

And now he’s calling other people Isaac. Seeing his face where he isn’t. Wondering why it’s taking him so long to bother him again even when Keith told him to fuck off. There’s no way he’d _actually_ fuck off, right? No way he’d really disconnect? If he did, Keith would never have the chance to tell him to fuck off again - or yell at him for making him feel like shit - or tell him he doesn’t remember ‘that one fun thing they did’ when really he remembers every single second of it - remembers it to a ‘t’ and could fill in the blanks of Isaac’s memory about it.

He was always better at that. Always remembering the good shit so the bad shit didn’t seem _as_ bad.

Remembered the way Isaac would let him sit in his lap. The way he’d rub his hand over Keith’s leg to calm him down.

How he’d push his bangs back and rest their foreheads together.

And he’d mumble, soft but nonetheless secure:

_“Keith?”_

He blinks. Streetlights in his eyes. Speeding down the road. The voice in his ear has him floating into another out of body experience - the second within a 24 hour period, but his phone is pressed to his ear, and-

_“Keith? You there?”_

More blinking now. A sinking feeling that won’t quit because he-... When did this-...

“Isaac?”

His voice cracks under the pressure of instant emotion. Instant confusion. Because what the-

_“Babe, what’s-”_

“Did-...you call me?” He forces it out, brain starting to slide a mile a minute because did he, or did _Keith-_

_“What? No, you just did. What’s wrong - you sound really out of it.”_

Keith swallows thickly, foot pressing down onto the brake as he eases to a stop in his parking space in front of the apartment. He needs to hang up - doesn’t even remember picking his phone up to call him in the first place so he should just-

“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing just-...I just thought you actually fucked off for once...”

Hang up.

_“You called to see if I was ignoring you?”_

Hang up.

“No, I-...” hang up hang up hang _up._ “Uh…”

_“This is the first time you’ve called since we broke up.”_

Keith stares at his knees, swallowing down another lump in his throat as it rises quickly to replace the last. “You mean since you fucked up my side.”

_“You know I didn’t mean it.”_

Yeah, he’s said that. More times than Keith can count. He’s said that, and said that, and said that, but: “You never said you were sorry for doing it.”

The car is eerily silent and still now that the keys are out. Now that he’s sitting, the line crackling for a moment before Isaac’s returning, voice low.

_“I’m sorry…”_

Keith presses his lips together, eyes stinging.

_“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”_

“There’s a bruise - a huge one,” he says, blinking it back. “It’s still there...”

_“I’m sorry-”_

“I have to cover it up for work...”

_“That’s-...fuck babe-”_

“Don’t call me that.” Only there’s no bite to it. Not this time. _“Please..._ please don’t fucking call me that.”

His request is met with a barely-whispered exhale.

Then nothing.

Then a long stretch that pieces itself together in the nighttime until Keith’s unsure if he’s listening to an empty line. Because man, that’d be pathetic… Almost as pathetic as calling your ex because you miss-

“Still there?”

He doesn’t miss him.

 _“Of course.”_ Not at all. _“Not like I’m gonna hang up when you’re finally the one talking to me first.”_

It lifts something in Keith’s chest. Something that shouldn’t be there anymore. Something that he doesn’t _want_ there but is there just the same. Lifting just the same. Giving him the motivation to ask, “What time is it by you…”

A rustle. Then: _“Nine-ish…”_

Nine-ish…

Two hours earlier…

 _“There’s a nice sushi place here.”_ He fills the quiet like it’s nothing. Like he’s sitting in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard and cigarette hanging out of his mouth like he used to. _“You’d really like it. You can pick whatever you want off a conveyor belt.”_

Keith’s eyes close, momentarily lost in the image. “...sounds expensive…”

_“Eh. Just gotta pay for the plate size.”_

“Really?”

_“Yeah… You could come here and pile on a fuck load of your spicy tuna rolls without getting looks. I mean, besides from me.”_

The huff of a chuckle that escapes Keith makes his stomach turn. Makes him open his eyes but not pick his head up from the headrest. Makes the urgency step its game up just a little bit in his head - _hang up_ \- but apparently not enough.

“Isaac…”

_“Yeah?”_

Hang up.

End it.

Block him.

“Who, uh-... Where’re you staying…”

_“With Marc.”_

“Right…” He said he was going to.

_“The apartments here are pretty cheap, though. Decent too.”_

“Yeah?”

_“Yeah, it’d be really easy to split if you ever wanted to come up here.”_

Keith’s heart sinks sadly. Stays dragged down. “You know I’m not gonna move in with you. Especially not halfway across the country.”

An honest chuckle - somehow even sadder. _“...I know.”_

Then why say it? Why keep it up? Why stay on the line when Keith knows way too fucking well that he has no business being here in the first place - at _all._

Hang.

Up.

_“It’s hard being without you. ...you know?”_

Hang up.

_“I keep seeing you everywhere. Even though I know it makes no sense because you’re still in Chicago.”_

Keith’s gaze drops to his knees again. To the one bouncing up and down to keep the sting in his eyes from getting worse.

 _“I miss you, Keith…_ So _fucking much…”_

Getting _worse._

_“My brain keeps making me think you don’t, but...you do too, don’t you?”_

The first tear is quick. Drops from his eyelashes and falls past and into his lap.

_“...Keith?”_

The second is much slower. Takes its time rolling down his cheek. Leaves a trail for the next one to follow down. “...what.”

_“Do you miss me?”_

It slips past the slight quiver in his lip. The tremble that’s hidden away in the dark just like him - tucked away in his car as he pulls a knee up and hugs it to his chest because...softly…finally...achingly... “...yeah…”

He squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face in his knee but refusing to let the sob out because he _will not_ let Isaac know. _Will not_ let him know he’s winning. _Will not_ let him know he wishes he was actually here right now, feet kicked up on the dash and cigarette in his mouth because then at least he could-...just... _touch him again…_

_“I love you…”_

Keith’s head hits the headrest, a hand coming up to cover his eyes and the other ripping his phone away from his ear - pressing it against his thigh just in time for the shaky inhale that does nothing but set him off worse.

Because he knows he shouldn’t want it. Knows he shouldn’t be sitting here crying - feeling so fucking _sorry_ for himself. He’s the one who called in the first place. The one who’s sworn up and down that he isn’t hung up on this piece of shit. The one who’s had it coming this entire time and has _known_ it’s coming and-

Fuck.

He inhales again.

Can’t catch his breath.

Swipes out of the call and lets his eyes fly open and just tries to fill his lungs up but he can’t even do that. Can’t even do the simplest fucking task.

It’s no wonder he’s such a fuckup.

No wonder he’s with Isaac-- _was_ with-- _wants to-_

Keith’s brows furrow angrily, hands fisted and fingernails cutting into his palms because _fuck. Fuck fuck fuck - fuck this - fuck Isaac - fuck his phone going off over and over again because he doesn’t need it._

He doesn’t _need this shit._

He doesn’t need any of it.

Keith’s knuckles turn white.

Hands shake.

Head slams against the headrest again and again and again.

He doesn’t.

Need.

This.

Shit.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

It doesn’t stop.

It slows, but it doesn’t stop.

Because two hours later, breath finally caught, he gets a call from Hunk.

_“Hey sorry man. I know it’s late but uh-...on a scale of one to ten, how available are you to come over and talk Lance down?”_

It has more confused irritation swirling in his brain - in his gut - channeled in the wrong direction as he aims it at Hunk. “What the hell are you talking about?”

_“He’s-...no, dude it’s okay just sit down. ...yeah I know, I’m talking to him right-STOP STOP STOP STOP-”_

“Hunk.” What the fuck?

_“Yeah, I’m here. God, I’m so sorry - can you come over? He’s having a really weird trip and is like...obsessing over you being here and I can’t talk him out of it.”_

The confusion bouncing around in Keith’s brain starts to battle with the uncomfortable twinge of concern. Because that doesn’t sound good. At all.

He sighs, pulling himself out of the bed he knew he wasn’t going to get any sleep in tonight anyway. “Yeah, I’ll be right over.”

And that’s how he finds himself in 9F, walking past a girl starfished on her back and staring at the ceiling in mystification as he follows Hunk down the hallway. It’s how he finds himself here, cautiously entering the familiar bedroom after him to the scene of Lance pacing, voice murmuring something lowly and Hunk putting his hands on his shoulders, steadying him to talk to him at an eye level that Lance won’t meet until he notices the third presence in the room.

It’s how he finds himself stuck, Lance pushing past with a breathy, “Fuck, thank god,” and stalking over to wrap his arms around Keith like he’s going to disappear if he lets go.

It has Keith startling - freezing - hands flexing behind the hold, his eyes darting up to Hunk for some sort of answer as Lance sloppily repositions his arms to tighten the embrace.

But Hunk just lets out a sigh, looking up to the ceiling as if he’s thanking a higher power for listening to his prayer. Then, more helpfully. “Shrooms from Nyma…”

Oh.

_Oh._

Shrooms.

Keith’s spent enough years at art school to know about those.

“Keith holy shit,” Lance murmurs - chants evenly into the top of his hair.

Keith slowly lets his arms lift to return the hug, although it’s hesitant. “How long’s he been like this?”

Hunk shakes his head. Dead tired. “Like an hour and a half.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“What about that girl in the living room?”

Lance’s murmuring doesn’t let up. It’s as strong as it was from the very start.

Hunk steps toward the door. “She’s fine but I should probably be there.” Clearly he’s the friend of the group who deemed themselves the sober sitter of the other two.

Keith nods. Stumbles backwards a little as Lance loses control of his weight distribution enough to set them both off balance. But then he’s back. They’re both back. And Hunk’s out the door and closing it and-...

Okay.

Deep breath.

Be present.

“Lance…” He says it over the slow, steady chorus of _holy shit...holy shit…_ He isn’t loud enough. He has to say it again, louder this time and pulling at the backs of his shoulders to pry enough space between them to look at him. “Lance. _Hey,_ look at me.”

It gets his attention for half a second. For just enough time to make hazy eye contact before his gaze is sliding over to something just past Keith’s shoulder. Something farther off and in the corner of the room.

“Hey. You’re okay, alright? Everything’s okay.”

Except is it? Because he’s _staring._ Fucking zeroed in. Pupils blown.

Keith glances over his shoulder, already knowing nothing’s there. He doesn’t know why he does it - knows he _shouldn’t_ have done it as soon as he turns. Because when he does - when he acknowledges Lance’s point of attention - it has him releasing his grip around him and backing up, arm flying out to summon him as he moves backward.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, eyes still locked. “C’mere, c’mere, c’mere…”

Keith moves toward the touch before he can get too many more out. “What? What do you see?”

“C’mere.”

“I’m here. Lance, I’m right here. There’s nothing over there - you’re tripping.”

Lance’s grip around his wrist is unknowingly strong. Unknowingly settling this little ball of discomfort in the pit of his stomach. “You’re-...c’mere don’t-...”

“You’re tripping.”

Lance shakes his head, eyes still stuck in the corner of the room until Keith plants himself in front of him, blocking the way and framing his hands on his cheeks to keep the eye contact.

“Look at me,” he says, speaking clearly but not unkindly. “It’s okay. You did those mushrooms with Hunk, remember?”

Lance swallows, adam’s apple bobbing tensely in his throat.

“Remember?”

“...yeah.”

“It’s the drugs.”

“Yeah.”

“So nothing’s over there. Nothing’s anywhere.”

“You’re here.”

Keith smiles. Chuckles a little bit. “I’m here.”

“You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“I love you.”

“I’m-...” Keith’s smile trips up. Wait. “...what?”

“Where’s Hunk?”

The response is slow to form. Difficult to process as Lance swallows again, eyelids slowly to blink. Just roll with it. “He’s here.” Roll with it. “He’s in the living room.”

“You’re here.”

“Yeah, I’m here.” Keith nods over to the bed. “Do you wanna lie down maybe?”

He gets a head shake no.

“No?”

“No.”

“You’re not tired?”

“No.”

“Okay, how do you feel then?”

Another head shake.

Keith contains his frown. Doesn’t realize he’s stroking his thumb over Lance’s cheekbone until it’s already happening. Decides to do it with both because it's gotten him to stay still at least. “Bad?” he asks. “You feel bad?”

Lance nods.

“What kind of bad?”

The eye contact’s gone. Toward the ceiling. “Bad.”

“What kind?”

By the bookshelf. “I’m bad.” Further in. “...’m bad…” Back to Keith, his entire face. “...love you...”

It has this otherworldly way of having his heart sink to the floor and suspend itself in his chest at the exact same time. “What?”

“I love you.”

Again. Keith’s brain is having trouble processing. “Why do you keep saying that?”

Lance’s grip reforms at the center of Keith’s shirt, bunching it up but not pulling. “I love you.”

“You’re tripping out, remember? Hey. Lance.” Regain attention. “You’re tripping, right?” Who’s he saying this for? “You did mushrooms with Hunk, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Keith steadies himself. Knows he can’t afford to go into a full blown anxiety attack when he’s got Lance slumping against the wall, hand still fisted in his shirt. “Okay, so...why don’t we lie down?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.”

“You’re here, right?”

Keith nods, although his heart is in his throat because-

“Keith-”

“I’m here.” He pulls him over to where the bed’s waiting, all done up and comforter pulled tight.

He settles down first. Doesn’t have a chance to reposition before Lance is settling down after him - terrible weight distribution - and he’s slotting himself into the empty space between Keith’s legs, his face buried against Keith’s stomach and hands coming up to clutch at the material of his shirt near his sides.

Keith lets out a long breath, eyes to the rotating fan above them.

Breathe.

There’s no need to panic.

Lance is fucked. Doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“...love you…”

_Doesn’t know what he’s saying._

Doesn’t know what he’s slurring, over and over and over again into Keith’s stomach as his fingers press down from pinky to thumb, pinky to thumb, pinky to thumb in the material of his shirt.

“...-you...love you...I love you mami…”

The fan rotates.

And Keith stares up at it.

And counts to ten.

And counts back down.

And counts to ten.

And breeeeeeeathes breathes breathes because Lance is out of his mind. He wouldn’t say this if he wasn’t. Doesn’t even think it when he’s not. _Wouldn’t_ if he wasn’t because it’s really soon and it’s such bad fucking timing and it’s-

“...love you…”

...it’s…

“...love you…’m in love with you…”

Breathe.

Breathe.

one...two...three…

four...five...six…

seven...eight...nine…

“...’m in love…”

ten.

ten.

ten    ten    ten   ten ten tententen-

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

Lance falls asleep.

Lights out.

Out cold enough for Keith to slowly slip from under him…

Slowly slip from his room…

Slowly slip back into his car…

Slowly slip out of consciousness...fully zoned out until he’s moving in a direction he’s never navigated before.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up in a half-full mall parking lot he doesn’t remember stopping overnight in.

Only wakes up because the slam of a car door around him has him jerking awake, hair a mess and his neck aching as soon as he moves.

The air is stale.

Still.

Dead as he grabs at his phone to five missed calls. One after the other.

But they aren’t from Isaac. And neither is the text above it.

_omfg keith im so sorry. idk if ur not answering bc of last night or somethin else but i was fucked up and didnt mean to scare u off. fuck im really sorry can u hmu when u get this pls. pls pls pls call me_

 

* * *

 


	9. The Light Down At The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (((a cute/smutty interlude because the last chapter would be too long with it and honestly lets get some feelgood shit going with these two amirite)))

They meet at an empty park. Walking distance from afterschool. Because Keith has no car and no time and no more energy in his brain but he’ll find enough for this. For Lance. For Lance’s back to him as he sits on a swing without moving until he must hear the crunch of the woodchips beneath Keith’s boots, because then he’s turning.

“Keith,” he’s at a ten, brows fixed and: “Fuck, listen I’m so sorry for wha-”

“Hang on.” He interrupts him. He does. But he has to because he’s exhausted both mentally and physically and: “A lot of shit’s happened in the last day. I don’t mind telling you I’m like...extremely emotionally drained…”

Lance hangs onto his every word, hands gripping the swing’s chains as he watches him through the space between. 

But he’s not talking. And it gives Keith enough room to take a breath, “Can we just…” let it out slowly, “...do this calmly...without getting dramatic…?”

The request, in retrospect, might not be entirely fair. They  _ are  _ discussing a fresh confession not even twenty four hours old. But Lance simply nods, eyes scanning over the woodchips as if he’s started to rewire his plan of action in his brain per request.

Keith gives him the time, making his way over to the swing next to him and sitting with another exhale, the chains clanking from the added weight. 

It’s when Lance finally sits again too, not giving away any sign that he’s successfully rewired his plan of action or not, but cracking his knuckles with curt little pops.

The silence is heavy between them, thick with the realization that things are different now. Ever since…

“Can I go first?”

Keith glances over, taking in Lance’s profile against the backdrop of the city not too far off. “Uh... _ sure.  _ Yeah.”

It starts with a little nod of confirmation, either to Keith’s response or to himself. A sort of internal peptalk that may or may not be working. Keith can’t tell because he won’t look up from the ground, even as he finally eases into starting.

“It’s uh…” he scuffs a shoe through the woodchips with a faked chuckle, “It’s crazy, right? Like who- ahh, no.” He cuts himself off immediately, shaking his head at himself and rubbing a hand over his eyes. “No, that’s-...not what I wanna say at all…”

Keith watches it curiously, invested in this new side of Lance as it unfolds awkwardly in front of him. He’s trying. Keith can tell. But, “Lance-”

“Okay look.” His next attempt is serious, hands slapping back down onto his thighs as he steadies himself, “This is the last thing you need. I get it, alright? You’ve got a lot of shit going on and you don’t need some idiot getting fucked on shrooms and saying weird shit to you, like- I  _ get it.  _ I get it, okay?”

“Okay...”

“I get it-”

“Alright, but did you mean it?”

Lance’s train of thought derails instantly, just as it’s getting going. And Keith feels bad, he guesses, but…

He needs to know.  _ Needs  _ to.

Lance swallows thickly, lips parted to speak but nothing coming. His eyes trail the ridges on the ground. It’s a simple question. Did he mean what he said, or not? “People...don’t like to hear that…” he gets out quietly...slowly. “It freaks them out, you know?”

The ache in Keith’s chest never really stopped - is still going full swing since last night. “I know…” Fuck, does he know. “But I wanna know if you were just high or if you actually meant it.”

Another unreasonable request. 

Another unreasonable need.

And yet here Keith is, asking it from him. Just one more unfair move on his part. 

The struggle to dance around his answer is so obvious in Lance’s phrasing that it hurts. “It’s like-... I  _ was  _ high, you know? But like maybe-... It’s-... I was high and I clearly scared you away so why even- why do you need to know what-... I dunno man, how’re you gonna make me say shit while you get to sit there and chill-”

“I really like you.”

His rambling stops on a dime, eyes widened and brows arched cautiously as his head turns to look at him. 

And Keith should be embarrassed for saying it, probably. Should feel out in the open and dumb. But he’s drained. And it’s all out on the table. And. “I like you. A lot more than you probably think I do.” His swing sways back and forth as he shifts his weight. “I’m not ready to like...say what you said and everything yet, but…”

His explanation drifts off with the breeze, away from the city. Closer toward the sunset. Are they ever going to have conversations without the sun setting prettily in the background?

Lance is still cautious when he speaks, lowly. “What’re you saying?” It’s the certain amount of hope in his tone that betrays him.

Makes Keith’s chest all nice and warm, though. “I’m saying I wanna be with you - like for real. If you wanna deal with me.” 

He graciously looks away from where Lance is having trouble schooling his facial expressions. Gives him the space to react without feeling embarrassed. 

It leaves a lot of the silence a mystery to him, though, without being able to read the mood from his face. But it’s a sacrifice Keith’s willing to make. Especially when the chuckle that bubbles up from next to him is as astonished as it is honest.

“Fuck...this is  _ not  _ how I thought this conversation was gonna go.”

It pulls one from Keith just as easily. “No?”

“No, I thought you were gonna tell me to fuck off for good.”

Keith throws him a look, although it’s through a smile. “Why the hell would I want you to fuck off when you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years?”

He doesn’t realize how grossly cheesy it is until Lance’s look softens. And then-

Oh.

Ahh.

“Fuck, that was terrible.”

“Nope, see now you need to gimme a hug before I explode,” Lance smiles, swing swaying back as he stands and readies himself for what is obviously going to take place.

Obviously. 

Of course. 

Because now Keith is blushing a little bit and it’s only right that he meets him halfway, arms wrapped probably a bit too tightly around him, because he may be emotionally exhausted, but that doesn’t mean his brain isn’t gonna find some energy in the reserves to make him a giddy mess because this is… This is... _ good. _

Lance presses his cheek to the top of Keith’s head, eyes closing. “How the fuck did this work out in my favor…”

Keith grins, giddy-high against his chest. “It’s been in your favor for a while, I just suck.”

“Don’t say that mami - you don’t suck.”

It’s cute, but Keith can’t help it. That ship’s already sailed. “99% of our drama stems from me being an idiot who can’t co- _ mm...” _

The gentle tug of his chin up to meet Lance’s lips seals off the rest, Keith’s eyes fluttering closed from the sudden soft, caring press. It floods him with the good stuff. The endorphins. The pleasant warmth. The tingle in his fingertips as he reaches up, hesitantly at first, but then with more confidence to trail them along the side of Lance’s neck before settling on his shoulder.

Lance closes their kiss off. Presses another one at the last minute - just a light slip of tongue. Enough to have Keith’s fingers tingling again but not enough to ruin the delicate mood they’ve created between themselves.

“So…” he grins into it, breathy, resting his forehead down against Keith’s, “I can just do that whenever now, right?”

His grin is contagious, Keith wetting his lips as he lets his eyes close yet again. “What, you holdin’ back before?”

The hands sliding over his hips and around his sides are his answer. A very obvious ‘yes’, made even more obvious by the next kiss to his mouth. Then his cheek. Then his temple.

“Oh my god, you’re mushy.”

“Well you better get used to it, because as long as you stay this cute I’m gonna stay this mushy.”

Keith grins, squirming away from him with only half-effort because he likes the flirty hands grabbing onto him to keep him close. “Let go - I need a shower.”

“Great, let’s go take one.”

_ “Alone.” _

“Aw.”

“Come over and hang with Shiro til I’m done.”

Lance considers it with a hum, his arms octopussed around where Keith has managed to turn himself in his hold but not break free. “I could. Haven’t chilled with Six in a long time.”

“Great, let’s do it.”

“Awesome, carry me.” They  _ are _ in the position for a piggyback ride, Keith even hunched over a little bit in front of him.

“You’re joking, right?”

Lance grins, “Totally,” and then unwraps his arms to reposition them, “I’m carrying  _ you,”  _ scooping him up bridal style and starting his way back to where his car is parked on the side of the empty street.

The fuss Keith puts up is immediate, his stomach lurching a bit from the change in atmosphere, but not quick enough to fight down the blush in his cheeks because oh my  _ god,  _ “You can’t be fucking serious right now...” 

He covers his face with his hands, refusing to divulge the exact hue of red he’s sporting as Lance continues on with a laugh, enjoying himself to the fullest as they saunter away from the swing-set silhouetted by the sunset behind them.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

Keith spends a lot of his shower just trying to get himself to calm the fuck down, his blush evening out and then returning in full color with every little epiphany that dawns on him now that he’s alone with his thoughts.

He and Lance. They’re  _ dating.  _ They’re  _ together.  _ He’s Lance’s and Lance is his. They’re…

Lance is in love with him.

And Keith is... Almost there.

After settling himself down, he takes the extra few minutes to make sure he’s looking his best - a more advanced version of his looking-good-without-looking-like-he’s-tried style that he’s nearly perfected now. A dark blue flannel that’s tight in the shoulders but rolled up nicely over his forearms...opened in the front over a black t-shirt. Soft skinny jeans. Studs. That cologne he wore the first time he went over to Lance’s for that mysterious Netflix n’ chill night.

He knows it’s a hit when he makes his way into the living room where all the laughter is coming from because Lance sort of has this moment, glancing up from the joke Shiro’s telling, his smile softening as he sees Keith, then looks away, then looks back again real quick before nodding and commenting on Shiro’s joke like he didn’t just get majorly distracted with his brother.

They all end up smoking a little bit together. Nothing intense. Just enough to get to that comfortable haze that has them kicking back in the living room on the floor, the coffee table pushed out of the way for maximum chill space.

Keith’s gotten high with Shiro a bunch of times before. It’s not exactly a new phenomenon. But the third party being anyone but Isaac finally has him remembering certain aspects about high-Shiro. 

Like the fact that he loves to tease his little bro something unmerciful.

“Shut up!”

He’s just gotten done with his retelling of the time they were growing up and Keith was obsessed with the Fruit Roll Ups that were stamped with food-coloring tongue tattoos. Or more specifically, how he was obsessed with licking them and then putting them all over his arm until he had a sleeve of Fruit Roll Ups tattoos from his shoulder to his wrist.

Lance is crying, tears pouring down the sides of his face as he doubles over from laughter, just barely able to force out a wheezy: “That’s-...I can see it-...so fucking clearly, jesus!”

“You’re the one who yelled at me!” Keith defends himself against his brother, although it’s hard to fight down the secondhand laughter. “You thought they were real!”

“Yeah, for like two seconds until I realized they were cats. And like...suns and shit.”

“Caaaats!” (Lance is holding his sides now.)

“Anyway that’s  _ hardly  _ the weirdest thing you did back then,” Shiro takes a quick drag, head shaking with nostalgia, “You were such a weird kid, I swear to god…”

“Yeah well at least I didn’t have a crush on the captain from Treasure Planet.”

“You say that like I’m supposed to find shame in it.”

“She’s a cartoon.”

“She’s a woman of authority and she handled her shit.”

Lance snorts, goofy grin still on his face but slowly stretching into something mischievous from where he peers up from holding himself on the floor. “Yeah, you’ve moved onto real women that handle shit, huh Six...”

He says it with a kind of knowing conviction that has Keith frowning, points not connecting as he glances between the two. “What? What’s that mean…”

“Whaaaaaa seriously?” Lance’s look of shock is played up. “He doesn’t know?”

“Know what?”

Shiro rolls his eyes, mouth opening to either answer or put an end to it, but not before Lance bulldozes through it first.

“He’s been mad crushin’ on Allura for forever. Like ever since I started there, at least.”

Oh. 

_ Oh. _

Wait,  _ what? _

“Thank you. So much, Blue.” Shiro’s dry with it, the thoughts all aligning in Keith’s brain as he adds on a nonchalant: “And if you’re gonna be so nosy about it, at least get your facts straight.”

Lance leans back against the foot of the couch. “Whatchya mean?”

“I mean we’re already on our fifth date, so you’re  _ way  _ behind.”

“What! No way!”

The disarray of Lance pumping for details and Shiro literally holding him back with a single, unmoving arm makes a bizarre backdrop for the realization. For the thoughts to come together - every Allura-centric comment his brother has made - each decision to move physically closer to her at work - the days he’s gone out around dinner time and came back in a noticeably calmer mood.

They’re dating. 

Shiro and Allura are dating.

“But she’s our boss.” It’s the first thing that decides to blurt out of Keith’s mouth. Not exactly award-winning brother-support.

It’s obvious with the way Shiro’s head shakes just a little, shock as dry as it comes. “Damn it, really? Wish I would’ve known that beforehand.”

Keith gestures away his own comment. “That’s-...ignore me. I’m happy for you.”

“Right.”

“Man, Six and Allura…” Lance’s tone is almost astonished as he props an arm up on the couch and stares absentmindedly. “Talk about your fuckin’ Power Couple. Jesus, that’s a threesome I’d pay good money to be a part of-” cue snap of realization - “Oh uh, sorry Gloves…”

Keith honestly doesn’t have enough time to be offended before it’s being taken back, his brain still functioning slowly from the previous lightbulb moment. 

Shiro’s speaking first anyway. “Why’re you apologizing to  _ him?  _ Shouldn’t you be sorry for making me imagine that?”

It’s a good question, for someone who wasn’t just at the park a couple hours ago going steady. The struggle Lance endures to backpedal is only momentary, coupled with a chuckle. “Was more so apologizing for making  _ him  _ imagine his brother gettin’ busy but, yeah I guess apologies all around - why not.”

It gets a good laugh out of Shiro. One of those ‘jesus christ you’re something else’ laughs with a shake of the head that Keith recognizes from watching their interactions at the start of all this. It’s a bit of a mindfuck. Lots of deja vu. Not enough to ward off the awkwardly intrusive thought of Lance in bed with his brother, though.

“Anyone need anything? I’m gonna get water.” Shiro’s voice doesn’t help.

“Nah.”

“I’m good.”

And then he’s getting up from the floor with a little grunt, footsteps past and then tucked away into the kitchen long enough for Keith’s impulsivity to kick in. 

He eases forward, moving across the carpet on his hands and knees to close the space. It earns him a blink of interest from Lance’s end, who notices the approach but doesn’t have much of an opportunity to react with anything else but a smirk before Keith’s stopping in front of him, still on his knees as he leans forward to slot their mouths together.

Lance hums - something pleasantly surprised - fingers sliding into the hair behind Keith’s ear. “Mm... _ hello…” _

It’s a contagious smirk. Keith can feel it on his own lips. “Hi…” 

He’s had  _ just _ enough for that spark of slightly jealous attraction to set off in his brain. Not full-blown horny or anything. Just feelin’ it. Which is why he sneaks the small kiss while Shiro’s away, and why it kind of maybe slips into something a little more heated than he intended (like he swears he wasn’t planning on any tongue whatsoever, oops). But as already expressed, Lance is a good kisser. Even when they’re trying to keep things chaste. And Keith  _ really  _ likes kissing him. And-

“Ah jesus, I  _ knew  _ you two were secretly at it.”

Keith’s reaction time isn’t great, lulled by the slight haze and the hand disappearing from his hair and the realization that  _ fuck it, he’s already seen. _

Lance’s reaction time, though, is contrastingly stark, his posture straightening and hands flying off of Keith and held up in the air to separate himself from his crime - a sort of hail mary ‘look Six I’m not touching him I’m not touching him I didn’t do anything I swear’.

It’s way too late for that, though. 

But Keith guesses it’s not the end of the world. 

“Don’t be weird about it,” he mumbles, sitting back on his heels. Although he’s not really sure which person he’s talking to specifically. Might even be a mental note, at this point. To be honest, Keith’s brain is pretty shot. 

Either way. “Just don’t be gross on the couch, please,” is Shiro’s only tired request. 

To which Keith rolls his eyes, “Don’t be stupid,” then tacks on a dead serious: “We keep it strictly to the kitchen counter.”

It’s not well-received.

“Oh my god…” Lance murmurs to himself in the background, a fist to cover his mouth as he averts any and all eye contact for fear of making things worse.

It’s almost kind of funny, now that Keith’s reached this state of pleasantness where he can appreciate the distinct look of Lance keeping a desperately low profile after getting his hand caught in the cookie jar. He wishes he could Snap him a picture of his face, but that’d be wildly inappropriate for a time like this. Probably. 

Definitely.

“Alright, I’m going to sleep,” Shiro hasn’t even sat back down. Just brings his glass of water to his mouth and then turns, but not before pointing straight at where Lance is now at attention. “You.”

“Yes?”

“If you’re staying here, you’re on the couch.”

“Yes sir.”

And with that, Shiro nods, points warningly at Keith as well, and then takes his water and makes his way into the hallway.

The distant click of his door shut has Keith instantly throwing Lance a narrow-eyed stare. “...’yes  _ sir’...?” _

“I panicked,” Lance admits, his posture finally easing off into something more comfortable now that he’s no longer under fire. “Suddenly I was a World War II scrub getting chewed out for not cleaning my boots the right way.”

The breathy snicker that escapes through Keith’s teeth is amused. “Jesus… You’re ridiculous. You know that right?” 

“I dunno why you’re laughing. He wants me out here so he can kill me in my sleep.”

“Oh my god, it’s fine,” he assures, picking up the pipe to take another hit. “And  _ he’s  _ fine. Everything’s fine.”

Lighter click.

Bud crackle.

Slow inhale in.

Lance watches, an unconvinced eyebrow raised as his eyes follow the purse of Keith’s lips. Except his tone is more calm now, helped by the lull of things slowing back down. “Uh huh… Catch my dead body out here tomorrow morning...” 

“You’ll be alive and well.”

“Bet.”

“Alright fine, then come sleep with me.” 

Lance ignores the lighter and pipe being held out for him in order to zero his stare in on Keith’s face just a little bit above instead. “Are you crazy? Then I’d really be fucked.”

“Oh you’d  _ definitely  _ be fucked.”

“Not like-...” Lance glances away to heave a dramatic sigh toward the ceiling. “Hilarious. Now I’m gonna be thinking about gettin’ busy with you all night, thanks a ton.”

“No problem,” Keith chuckles, then sets the stuff onto the side table as he gets to his feet. “Need anything out here?”

His movements are followed to a T, watched as Lance sits up a little straighter again. “What, you callin’ it already?”

“Mhm, long day.”

“Oh. Uhh,” a quick look around, “No...guess I’m good out here.”

Keith nods, “Mmk cool...” and then leans in, a hand propping him up on the edge of the couch just short of Lance’s head so he can swoop down, “Night,” and kiss him.

Lance returns it. Honestly looks a little surprised he’s getting a goodnight kiss in the first place. Feels even more surprised when Keith doesn’t break away when the time is up, instead opting to lean further in, deepening the kiss with an unfair sweep of his tongue that has Lance breathing out through his nose.

Keith swallows down his own grin, swirling around Lance’s tongue and then nibbling softly at his bottom lip enough to pull it - to tug it gently on his way up before straightening again.

It leaves Lance breathless. Heavy lidded. Exactly where Keith wants him.

“That’s uh...someone’s playin’ dirty…”

Keith simply grins - a half-one as he grabs his phone and then begins his easy saunter toward the hallway, keeping that eye contact as he says it nice and low. “Night, Blue...”

He leaves him on it. Leaves him in the living room. Leaves him with his mouth hanging open just a little bit as he watches after him until Keith’s shutting his bedroom door behind himself. A quiet  _ click.  _ And then it’s done.

Keith lets out his composed breath as he moves toward his bed. He pulls his shirt off over his head - eases his shoulders out - chucks it in the laundry hamper in his closet and is halfway through stepping out of his pants when he catches his reflection in the mirror. The arch of his back. The faint bruising still over his ribs. The ghost of careful lips pressing over it.

Keith tosses his pants into the hamper, the intriguing warmth still creeping through his chest as he settles on top of his bed sheets and consults his ceiling once again. 

He wants Lance.

Here.

In bed with him.

More specifically,  _ inside  _ him. But that part’s not anything new.

The warmth is quick to travel as Keith runs a hand over himself, pleasure blossoming even through his briefs.

He wants Lance. Here.

_ New Message - just now _ _  
_ _ Lance _

Oh. Speak of the devil.

_ ur fridges makin weird noises _

Keith huffs a small laugh, hand joining the other to thumb in his response.

**it does that youll be fine**

**unless you wanna come in here with me**

Another hook. Keith casts it out, knowing the bait is tempting to both sides.

_ u know id already be in there if i didnt value my life _

A shudder wracks through Keith’s body as he drops back to palm himself - to lose his patience and pull his briefs over his hips and to the end of the bed.

**you sure** he types with his thumb,  **youre missing out**

The response buzzes in as Keith reaches over into his nightstand for the lube, successfully dropping back and flicking the lid open as he opens the text with his other hand.

_ u gonna tell me what im missin out on or do i have to guess _

The first finger has Keith’s eyes fluttering closed for a moment. He’s gotta stretch this timing out.

**guess**

Lance probably doesn’t expect that as an answer. Which is why his response time drops drastically. But Keith uses it to his advantage, easing his middle finger into himself quicker than he normally would if he wasn’t currently putting a plan to get laid into action.

_ lol ok um lets see _

_ ur putting together a late night 500piece puzzle _

Keith’s laugh is breathy, lips already parted from the sensation.

**nope**

Another guess comes in straight away.  _ zumba _

**no**

_ no? rly? then u gotta be knitting jam a sweater or smth _

Keith’s head drops back onto the pillow, the smile on his face too stupid for words as another breathy laugh escapes him. Honestly how can he be so into this boy that he’s getting funny texts and he’s still two fingers deep in his ass for him.

**no** he grins, breath getting shaky now.  **last guess**

Lance takes it without much time.

_ the only other possible thing u could be doin is touching urself but that cant be it _

**why not**

_ bc why waste the energy when im here to do it for u _

A tingle of interest works its way through Keith’s body. Has his clean hand shaking as he thumbs in.  **you hvae to be in here to do taht tho**

_ tru _

True. Yes. So:

**come here**

**dont make me fuck my fingers when your dicks one room away**

Lance’s response comes in record time, Keith’s screen not even getting a chance to dim before two texts fly in.

_ fuck _

_ ok fuck it im comin unlock ur door _

Keith’s is just as quick, his body on the move as soon as it processes in his brain. The mattress groans a bit as he gets up and makes his way back over to his nightstand, carding quickly through the drawer until he finds what he’s looking for and steps into it, pulling it up around his hips and taking a moment to question how Lance could even entertain the possibility of his bedroom door being locked when he’s on the wrong side of it.

It’s when he hears the very very  _ subtle  _ clicking of his doorknob being turned, giving him just enough time to straighten out and make himself presentable in the middle of his room, lit just the right amount by the moonlight streaming in from his window.

His heartbeat picks up at the mere sight of Lance, who’s taking great care to back into the room and make sure the door closes without a single noise - even keeps the doorknob from clicking as he eases it ever so slightly back into its original angle, and then turns with a successful grin, mouth open to congratulate himself or make a comment or  _ something  _ but as soon as it happens - as soon as he locks eyes with Keith - everything sort of comes to an impressive halt. His movement. His comment. Literally everything he was gearing up for drops off into stunned silence as he stands there, taking in the view in front of him.

Because Keith’s waiting for him. Ready for him. Reaching up to pull his ponytail out and let his hair fall against his neck in the moonlight.

Lance blinks - eyelashes fluttering as if he’s having trouble processing the moment. Eyes taking in the paleness of Keith’s skin in the light. The smooth planes of his bare chest. The curves of his hips and the tempting press of his cock beneath the black fabric of the thong that surprised him the first time they hooked up.

And now here he is. Possibly even more surprised than the first time, judging by the very obvious look of stunned interest that’s seemed to permanently freeze on his face.

Keith can’t help the tiny grin, pleased with himself as he takes the first step and saunters over to Lance, pressing in close to the warmth. Lance's clothes are invitingly soft against his bare skin - welcome him in even as Lance seems to remain at a certain level of brain-processing until Keith laces his arms up and around his neck, his body stretching purposely because of it.

“What’s up Lance,” he quietly teases, tilting his head up to brush his lips over Lance’s bottom one as feather-light as possible. “See something you like…?”

It snaps him out of at least the first few levels of shock. The hands that spread across him as a result of it are warm - light - take up almost the entire span of Keith’s lower back as he finally speaks. “Did I like...unlock some sorta secret-sexy-boyfriend level or something…”

His tone is still a bit shocked. Definitely pushing the humor.

Keith smirks, pressing against him but not kissing him yet. “Did you know you make jokes when you’re nervous...?”

It must bring Lance down from a couple more levels, because then he’s humming matter-of-factly as he slowly shakes his head, letting his breath out through pursed lips, “Ooooh ‘nervous’ is not the word for it.”

“What is then.”

“Whatever word means trying to not lose it before my pants are even off, honestly.”

Keith chuckles quietly, hands coming to trail down Lance’s arms and then link with his. “Well...lucky for you…” he uses the momentum to pull him toward the bed, “...there’s an easy fix for that…”

Lance’s landing on the bed lacks his usual balance, his brain most likely diverting the energy toward getting his shirt up over his shoulders. It’s a nice plan. A pretty basic plan. But Keith’s got  _ other  _ plans for tonight.

The movement is honestly somehow flawless, practiced not even once but deadly in its accuracy as Keith fists the middle of Lance’s shirt right as it’s reached his forearms, gathering the fabric and pulling it around the space between his hands until it’s wrapped tightly around, effectively binding Lance’s wrists together in his lap as Keith holds onto it.

It earns a sudden look up, Lance’s eyebrows raised a bit. “Wh-...uh-”

“Shh.”

“-okay.”

It’s the immediate acceptance that gives Keith the go-ahead to use his free hand to pull Lance’s track pants down until they pool at his ankles on the floor, the sight of exactly  _ how  _ ready Lance is making his mouth water as he moves down to eye-level.

He wets his lips - breathes out close enough that Lance’s cock jumps a little bit in anticipation, and honestly how can Keith  _ not  _ at this point? 

The breathy groan from up on the bed as he wraps his lips around him and eases down is music to Keith’s ears - encourages him to pick up the pace right away. No downtime. No adjustment period. Just straight to the good stuff without any detours.

It has Lance speaking up in response. “Ohhh mami you keep that up and I’m tellin’ you right now this is  _ not _ gonna last long.” 

Keith slurps his way up, breath labored as he takes a second to speak, “...’s the point babe,” and then swallows him back down.

Lance doesn’t have time to comment with the way Keith uses his hold on the shirt binding to send him backwards, his upper half collapsing onto the mattress with a little grunt just loud enough to echo a little off the wall behind him. 

Keith pulls off from a deepthroat maneuver that he’s pretty proud of. “Shh.”

“Wh-”

_ “Shh.” _

“How’re you gonna tie my hands up and then tell me not to make n-”

_ “Shhhh.” _

Lance’s head drops back against the mattress, chest rising and falling in a shaky breath. “God you’re ev- _ ahhhh…” _

Keith smirks around him, picking his pace right back up again and possibly riding high off of the feeling of finally being in charge. Finally feeling confident.

Lance’s hands tighten up into fists against the shirt...fall open - shaky fingers...tighten up again as his breathing grows faster and less out of his control, the little breathy moans returning as his stomach muscles flex under Keith’s wrist.

It’s only a matter of time now.

Just a few more bobs of his head until-

“Oh shit- fuck, Keith-”

It’s too loud -  _ just  _ too loud - but then his voice is dropping off into something muffled as he slams his mouth shut - slams his eyes shut - slams his head back into the mattress and his back up  _ off  _ the mattress and Keith uses his free hand to hold his hip down as they rock in time with the warmth hitting the back of his throat.

It all happens quickly - quickly for  _ Keith,  _ at least. And when he’s finished making sure he hasn’t wasted even a drop, he lets go of his hold around the shirt and snakes his way up onto the bed over Lance.

Lance, who is still evening himself out. Who’s still, interestingly enough, got his eyes squeezed shut, one tighter than the other in some sort of steadying brace for impact as he breathes heavily through his nose.

Keith hums a little laugh. “You alright?”

It has him peeking out one eye, then the other when he realizes he’s being watched. “...mentally or physically…?”

Keith spreads a hand out over his chest, pressing just a bit as he leans down with a smirk and murmurs in his ear. “I meant can I ride you now without you coming in thirty seconds…”

Lance’s jaw flexes - a dangerously dirty chuckle as an answer.

“Does that mean ‘no’?”

“If you’re tryna drag me, joke’s on you - humiliation is one of my kinks.”

Keith leans back a little, an eyebrow raised just slightly. “Is it?”

But Lance’s eyes are already squeezed shut again in an accepting little wince. “No - I dunno why I said that.”

“Because you’re nervous.”

“Again, not nervous. More li- _iiihahaaa_ _ …”  _ The last bit is pulled from him - higher pitched and sudden as Keith sways his hips down against him, the drag doing wonders for him as well. 

“You should lie with your head on the pillow so I can get you hard again.”

Lance’s nod is sincere. “I mean honestly it’s not gonna take much-”

“Go lie down.”

“-okay.”

The transition is quick, Keith getting off him so Lance can do just that, the t-shirt that was holding his wrists together tossed vengefully on the floor. And when Keith straddles him again, it’s in a way that Lance must not have been expecting, because Keith isn’t even halfway to his dick when he feels the hands on his ass and hears Lance’s appreciative tone and-

“Don’t touch,” Keith says.

And if he was facing the other way, he’d probably be enjoying whatever look Lance is sporting right now. But he’s not. And he can’t. And he doesn’t really need to because Lance is speaking out without hesitation anyway.

“The fuck- please tell me you’re joking.”

“Mm-mm.”

“You got your ass in my face and you’re telling me I can’t touch it?” Technically he still is, both palms. He even leans in a bit for the next part, his breath sending shivers down Keith’s spine. “Fuck, lemme eat you out mami - I can make it so good for you.”

It’s almost enough to have Keith giving in. The touch. The tone of Lance’s voice. But he’s not ready to give up this bounty of confidence so: “You can later - just let me do this.”

It takes a second - a good  _ few  _ seconds, actually - but then Lance’s hands finally drop off as requested. But not without a frustrated groan in the process.

“You are  _ honestly  _ killing me here, Gloves. I dunno where this savage streak came from but y-”

Keith shuts him up with a swallow, closing his lips around him and swirling his tongue yet again and  _ oh,  _ does it shut him up. The talking, at least.

Because Keith knows he’s good at giving head. Knows he’s wearing this thong on purpose and swaying his ass just a little bit  _ more  _ on purpose. Knows he’s making a very lasting impression on their first fuck as a couple. Knows he’s also probably closer to coming than he should be with the way he can feel Lance’s breath so close to his entrance like that.

It’s a good indicator that he should move on, Lance already hard enough and Keith already stretched enough and honestly to put this off any more is nothing but torture for both of them so he does it. He pulls away and straightens around and faces where Lance is still  _ very  _ very interested, a hand immediately going to Keith’s hip as Keith moves the string of his thong to the side and presses against the head of Lance’s cock...eases down just a bit to get the long exhale from Lance and then lowers himself fully around.

It pulls a moan from him - one that’s loud enough that he has to bring a hand to his mouth to muffle it. Because fuck. He was giving Lance shit for coming so soon and yet here he is, feeling the telltale swirl between his legs already.

It’s fine. 

It’s fine.

This is his thing.

He set this all up and he can make sure it all goes fine.

Yes.

Right?

Yeah.

Keith breathes out, lips pursed, hips rocking forward to get the friction but not the thrust. It’s lowkey enough that it lights up all the good pleasure points inside of him without setting them on fire. And it gives him an opportunity to move slow - to sway temptingly on Lance’s dick and get those hands back on him. Back on his hips. Slid across to his back. Around and up and over his entire front as Lance appreciates the show with his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“Fuck, how’re you so gorgeous…”

Keith preens. He’ll admit it. He stretches and arches his back just the right way and revels in the hands on him - claiming him - one up his neck and a thumb dragging over his lips and pulling at the bottom to have them part.

And Keith feels... _ good. _

Feels attractive as hell.

Feels wanted.

Feels the desire to roll his hips more purposefully - to lean more of his weight onto his thighs and start the rise and fall that has both their breaths picking up.

It’s the fire then. The pleasure points. The gradual progression that leads up to the bounce, Keith running a hand through his sweaty bangs as he rides Lance’s dick fast enough that his thighs start to ache. 

It’s just in time for Lance to sit up. To take Keith by the waist and bring them both back, Keith’s weight distribution put to the test until Lance has scooted all the way to the wall, his back against it and their faces at the same level and suddenly it’s very close - very intimate - very real as Lance looks up at him, both hands on Keith’s face so he can bring it down to kiss him.

_ Really  _ kiss him.

Kiss him so deeply and with such an honest passion that it fucks with Keith’s heart a little. A  _ lot,  _ actually. Enough that he doesn’t even realize he’s stopped moving his hips until he feels Lance’s moving under his - rocking gently - calmly enough that they get the friction but not the bounce because the bounce will interrupt their kissing. And suddenly that’s the most important part in Keith’s head, his hands coming up to hold onto Lance’s neck as he tilts his head to reach a better angle.

Because Lance is-...

He’s really-...

And Keith-...

“You’re mine, right?”

The question registers bizarrely in Keith’s brain. Feels strange against his lips. Because...it’s...so obvious, isn’t it? “Yeah, of course,” he says, pressing a kiss to Lance’s cheek, and the side of his mouth, and then full-on again. “Yeah, I-…you’re mine…?”

And for once, his answer doesn’t come as a drawn out thought. Instead, it’s his arms wrapping tightly around Keith’s middle, his hips rocking up deeper as he slots their lips together. And that’s how it comes together, bodies close and mouths desperate and in a way it’s good, because it keeps things quiet, the only person hearing their hums and broken words and almost too-loud moans being each other. It gets them right there - right up to the edge - the moon casting it all in a silver shine as they tip and they fall but it’s okay because they’re together. They’re  _ together. _

They’re-...

Keith’s eyes flutter open, catching the look of sweet satisfaction on Lance’s face as they sit and catch their breath, arms clinging to the other because...

_ They’re together. _


	10. Love You To Death

It's been three weeks.

It's been three weeks and Keith doesn't know what to do with the giddy heat that keeps bubbling up in his chest every time he thinks about the fact that he and Lance are legitimately dating.

He's tried ignoring it, but that doesn't work right off the bat. He's also tried swallowing it down or beating it away with a metaphorical stick, but it simply won't cooperate, the butterflies running rampant in his ribcage at the mere thought of Lance being his-...his...well his… _boyfriend._

All it takes is a thought. Just a thought. Or a text. Or a ridiculous Snap with an equally ridiculous filter. It’s all it takes for Keith to be fighting the butterflies away with his bare hands. But it never works. He never tries hard enough. Because most obvious of all, he likes the flutter in his chest.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ha...god… ...god, mami… _...fuck_ that feels good…”

Keith hums in recognition, the car rocking just a bit on its wheels as he picks up the pace.

Lance is especially vocal tonight, probably running off the high of grabbing Keith right after a routine and sneaking away into the parking lot. Keith’s all for it - _lives_ for this shit because he knows how into it Lance is - knows how much he enjoys it every time Keith sinks down onto his knees for him, hair tied back as he slips between Lance’s legs.

He’s into it. _Really_ into it.

And Keith’s gotta admit he gets off to it too.

“Mmm…”

The fingers that card through Keith’s bangs do so like they have a thousand times before, not exactly new to the concept of freeing him up so Keith can peek up at him without expending too much effort.

Lance’s pupils are blown - caught glinting with the parking lot’s lamp posts while he watches.

And they haven’t even smoked yet.

Keith breaks away with a labored breath to ask- “Feel good?” even though it’s not exactly rocket science. Lance has already said it. _Keeps_ saying it, actually. But they both know that’s not about to stop him from saying it again.

 _“ Mm-_...mhm…” It’s cut off a bit by the slick heat of Keith’s mouth wrapping around him again - has his eyes closing for a second as he lets out a heavy breath before peering back down at him, face flushed. “God...you look so fucking good…”

Keith hums, the praise doing its own brand of good for him as he pulls off with a purposefully obscene slurp, the head of Lance’s cock resting against his lips as he smirks. “Wanna take a pic?”

It takes Lance a beat, brows coming together for a whole other reason as his brain must slowly comprehend. “...wait... ...seriously?”

But Keith’s smirk is dangerous - like the offer, he supposes - except what’s life without a little danger? “Mhm,” he hums, then tilts his head to leave open mouthed kisses down the length as he continues to peer up at him. “...you can even...take a video…if you want...”

Another offer that leaves Lance momentarily stunned. Brain working slowly. But when it finally settles in - “Gloves...are you for real right now...?” - breathy and in disbelief until Keith nods, the grin that dances its way across his face is just as equally dangerous. “Oh my god, you’re amazing.”

The shuffle to fish his phone out from where his pants are bunched at his knees is surprisingly smooth, Keith using the short time to tighten his ponytail and make sure he looks presentable before picking back up where he left off, putting his mouth to work and already going for it when Lance’s phone case catches light off the lamp post.

The familiar little _ding_ of the video beginning to record has Keith’s nerves spiking in the most glorious way. Because _fuck yes._ It’s his time to shine.

Lance’s murmur of pleasure is dirty, his free hand coming back up to push Keith’s bangs aside again. “...ohh yeah...shit, mami…” It’s nothing new - the pet names - the dirty talk - but the added element of being recorded sends Keith’s pulse skyward. “You like that…?”

Keith hums in approval, swirling his tongue around and then flicking his eyes up toward the phone as he starts a slow, filthy drag up the underside of Lance’s cock with a smirk, showing him just how _much_ he likes it.

It’s well received, Lance’s lips parting as he watches with hungry eyes.

Keith’s smirk only deepens - because this is his _thing_ \- so he puts on a show like he knows Lance adores and swallows him down again, returning to focus on his unhurried pace and holding himself steady around Lance’s calves off-camera.

It’s a rush. A weird, crazy rush that heats Keith’s entire body like he thought it would, only much more intensely. And _damn_ is he into it.

“Lemme see,” comes the low request, paired with the encouraging fingers brushing over Keith’s cheekbone and bringing him back into the moment. “Lemme see, baby…”

Keith happily obeys, head tilting for a better view and eyes flicking back up once again to meet Lance’s gaze on autopilot, then dropping down to the camera staring unwaveringly above him.

“Mm there you go…” Lance’s smile is lazy but no less appreciative - no less mesmerized. It goes well with the smooth way he drags his thumb past the corner of Keith’s mouth and then against his bottom lip, “...so hot...” slipping inside as Keith pulls off to appreciate the attention.

The car has stopped rocking. It brings more notice to the heaviness of Keith’s breathing as his eyes flutter closed while he lets Lance play. Lets him record. Lets him document the slow drag of his thumb back over his slick bottom lip, pulling it just a bit before both boys drop off into a smirk.

“Damn...your mouth is perfect, you know that?”

It’s definitely not the first time he’s said it, but it’s still like taking a hit straight to the brain, and it’s got Keith thankful for the darkness of the back seat to shroud the heat flooding his face. Especially when he hums and then brings himself back down into position, the head of Lance’s cock warm against his cheek.

“Mm...well it’s all for you, Blue,” he murmurs, and then brings his lips back to the tip with another little smirk that he knows translates well through the space between them.

He knows because he sees that glint in Lance’s eyes.

Hears the heaviness of his swallow.

Feels the fingers slip back into his hair and the gradual start of Lance’s hips beginning to rock forward with every bob of Keith’s head.

Lance is enjoying himself. _Really_ enjoying himself. And he’s gonna get to relive it all over again as soon as he has some privacy to pull this video up.

And yeah. Keith gets off on that shit.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Isaac is no more.

They haven’t spoken since that particularly terrible night in the car, but Keith knows he needs to make sure the opportunity doesn’t arise again. Needs to guarantee that he doesn’t find himself on the other end of the phone with him, emotional integrity unraveling or not.

So he does it. He needs to. Now more than ever. And his stomach churns, face lit from his screen as his thumb hovers over the button beneath Isaac’s name, and then finally, like a weight lifting and dissolving from his shoulders, presses _block._

 

* * *

 

 

Sydney is her usual self on Monday - tired from school but not too tired to pass up the chance to get into some shit.

Keith is halfway through using a pliers to pull out the smashed-in tip of a purple marker when he feels her detach from his arm, signaling that the day has drawn to a close and her mom’s finally arrived to pick her up. Thank god. Bless that woman and her patience, honestly.

Once Sydney reaches the doors, Keith waves goodbye to them both from across the room, his fingertips now almost completely covered in that telltale shade of purple.

“Violet, you’re turning violet,” Pidge offers on a pass-by, a thick stack of reading books in her arms.

Keith resists the urge to book-check her in order to give the marker tip one last tug, successfully saving it for another brutal day.

“Take note, Pidge,” he murmurs, brandishing the marker in her direction. “This’s an Art Ed degree in action.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hunk and Shay are An Item™ now. Keith isn’t 100% on all the details, but he does know it’s a big deal because apparently Hunk’s had a crush on Shay since the dawn of time.

It’s a good thing - Keith’s genuinely really happy for them. Especially since Hunk is such a nice dude and has been consistently friendly with Keith from their very first introductory half-hug at the door of 9F. It’s nice to see him happy, no matter how giddy and so obviously awe-struck he acts when they’re together.

“Are we like that?” Keith has to ask, the bar top a little rough on his back as he watches the two lovebirds do some especially lovebirdy shit in the dimmed lighting a few feet away.

The casual arm slung around his shoulders tightens just a bit, Lance sipping his drink with a little hum. “Mm. Nah babe, we’re totally the cool half of this double date.”

Keith can’t help but huff a chuckle as he reaches out to snag Lance’s glass and sample for himself. It’s about the same time Hunk pulls some sort of googly eyed look at Shay, her blush absolutely ridiculous. “Right. We’re the poster-boys of cool. This is terrible, by the way.”

His opinion is regarded with an eyebrow raise as Lance glances down at him and then lifts his glass back into his hand, ice clinking on the way. “Then stop stealing it, Gloves. You got your own drink right?”

It’s said with enough of a tease that Keith has to smirk. “Yeah, but you’re obligated to share everything with me now. What’s yours is mine and all that shit.”

Lance chuckles through his nose, opting to set the glass down in favor of turning his full attention to him once again, easing around to crowd Keith against the bar with a hand on each side and a smirk on his incoming lips. “What’s mine is yours, huh?”

It’s got Keith’s heart skipping just a beat or two - still riding high on the surprise of Lance’s attention after all this time. It’s enough to raise a little grin to his face. Enough to have him pressing back against the bar. Enough, almost, to haze out everything else around them except for the movement of black over Lance’s shoulder. The familiar posture. The leather jacket and swoop of dark hair. The-

“What.”

Lance’s voice pulls him back, Keith’s gaze flicking back to the concerned one a few inches away. “...huh?”

“What’s up? You just got kinda…” Lance’s words fade out like he doesn’t want to continue - knows _how_ to, but doesn’t want to.

Keith blinks. Looks back over his shoulder but sees what’s actually there this time. Sees the very obvious differences. Feels the tension in his shoulders ease where he didn’t realize they were rigid before.

Stupid.

“You alright?”

And Lance is still here, brows furrowed but in more of a friendly concern now as he must see Keith recover from his momentary loss of sanity.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. Waves it away. Uses the momentum to pull Lance closer by his forearms. “Yeah, where were we?”

“I think we were about to make out,” Lance answers with a smirk, tying everything back up as he’s brought in close. “Appropriately though, of course. Tasteful.”

It’s all he gets out before their lips meet, Keith sealing the deal and letting the endorphin rush smother the sourness swirling in his gut. It does the job. Gets rid of all of it.

Well.

Almost all of it.

 

* * *

 

Isaac’s number is blocked, but he’s still there. Still _here._ Still lurking around in the back of Keith’s brain no matter how fucking _desperately_ he wants him gone.

Keith fights it. Pushes through. Fills his thoughts with something else every time he wakes from a dream where they’ve somehow ended back together. Because that’s just his subconscious. That’s just his brain latching onto what it knows. That’s not Keith’s reality in the slightest and he knows it - _really really_ wishes his brain could catch up. Because the longer it lurks there, the longer it fucks with him. And it’s-...

It’s not that Keith wants to be back with Isaac. That is the complete and total fucking opposite of what he wants. It’s just...what if this is all too soon? What if he hasn’t let enough time pass between ending that and starting again with someone else? And what if-...

What if Lance thinks that too? Secretly. What if he thinks Keith’s rushed into this whole thing with him? Because he has, kind of. It really hasn’t been that long since he and Isaac ended. What, a couple months? Is that even long enough to get over someone you’ve been with for years?

Keith rolls over, blankets up to his nose even though it’s only one in the afternoon.

He likes Lance. So fucking much. But they both know he hasn’t said he loves him back yet. And that’s gotta fuck with a person - even a confident person like Lance. And it’s just-...Keith’s not ready. His chest might be all full and light and shit when they’re together but, there’s still that sourness lurking there under it all. And…

Keith peeks his phone out from the top of his blanket, thumb slowly typing out a frowny face and nothing else and then sending it off.

Lance’s response time is endearingly quick. Like it always is. Like it’s always been.

_no!_

_not the sad one!_

_whats wrong!_

Keith sits on it for a moment. Wonders if this is something he can even express over the phone or if he’s just better off forgetting it until they see each other next.

He ends up with another frowny face. The exact same thing. Fires it off and doesn’t have time for his screen to dim in the afternoon sun before Lance’s message is coming in.

_where r u babe lemme come spoil u_

It’s enough to raise a grace of a smile to Keith’s face. Just a bit.

**home**

_ok dont move  amuscle im omw_

Keith’s phone disappears back under his blankets with that, forgotten as he lets his eyes drop back closed again.

He didn’t really mean for that. For this. He wasn’t trying to summon Lance here or anything, but...honestly he’s not gonna stop him if that’s what he wants to do.

Now all Keith has to do is get his brain to leave him alone.

It takes half an hour, but the sound of the apartment door closing and Shiro’s deep voice coming from the kitchen drags Keith out of the first layer of sleep. There’s footsteps. Two sets. Then one. Then the quiet creak of Keith’s door.

His mattress dips with familiar weight - from the bottom up - and then bounces as the warmth settles behind Keith, an arm coming to fit snugly over him and the blanket, and a cold nose nuzzling at the back of his neck.

Lance draws out his exhale, finally settled, warm breath fanning across Keith’s neck. And then, contently, “Hello, please.”

Keith adjusts to the hold, breathing in the comforting smell of Lance’s cologne. “Hi...”

“Wanna talk about what’s gotchya down...?”

It’s not an expectant question. Not heavy. Keith appreciates the offer, even if he’s still trying to figure out if now’s the right time. “Not really…”

His answer is accepted without another word, his guest graciously allowing the silence that follows as if he expected it anyway.

Another thing to appreciate. All of this, really. Even if-... “Can you...get under here…?” Lance has always been touchy-feely. Always been handsy. Keith’s come to crave it, and the blanket between them really isn’t doing him any favors at the moment.

He only has to deal for a second longer, because then his better half is getting with the program and removing himself, rolling away only to come back, this time joining him under the security of the blanket.

Keith’s eyes flutter closed in satisfaction, Lance’s arm wrapping back around him and a warm kiss pressed to the back of his neck.

“I brought tacos,” he murmurs softly. “Half of them are for Six, but the rest are yours.”

Keith’s hum is thankful. Quiet. Pensive.

He should say something. About what’s bothering him - not the tacos. He should say something so there can be at least one less thing lurking around in his brain.

He needs to.

“Hunk made s-”

“How long have you loved me?”

It slips. Comes out at the worst time. Keith knows because he can feel the pleasant smile on Lance’s lips drop off. Can sense the awkward unease that settles behind him.

Lance lets out a huff of a laugh. Just one. Painfully uncomfortable, but: “What uh… ...what?”

They haven’t talked about it since that day at the park. Since they decided they should be together. And even then, they didn’t really talk about it. Lance didn’t _say_ it, at least. No, the last and only time he actually _said_ it was when he was having his bad trip.

So…

This was a mistake.

Keith shouldn’t have said anything.

“Hey.” Lance is nudging him with his foot beneath the blanket, tone still noticeably uncomfortable, but more concerned with whatever’s going on with Keith. “Is that what you’re stressin’ about…?”

Keith presses the side of his face into his pillow - “No…” - wants to just lie here for a little longer without talking, but… “...kinda…”

It’s part of it, at least. A big part, now that he’s forced to come face to face with it. Metaphorically, that is. It’s just…

“Hey. Just talk it out, alright...?”

Lance’s arm gives him a little squeeze that Keith doesn’t deserve. And he’s already said too much, so he might as well…

Keith sighs, thankful he can hide his face because, “I just-...I don’t want you to think you’re a rebound or some stupid shit like that.”

“I don’t think I’m a rebound.”

“You did.”

“I don’t anymore.”

Keith frowns. Can it be that easy? “Why not?” What changed?

“Because you told me I’m not. And hey,” Lance moves then, shifts over to rest on one elbow and wait until Keith finally turns his head and looks at him from another “hey,” before continuing - honestly. “I don’t really know what the deal was with you and that guy - and like, maybe one day you’ll tell me even a little bit about it, but I can tell you weren’t happy. And I can tell you really wanna disconnect yourself from whatever that whole thing was.” He holds the gaze for a breath, then, “You want it gone, don’t you.”

Keith swallows, the sourness beginning to swirl but Lance’s presence not letting it blossom into something full. He nods. Fuck, does he want it gone. But even more importantly: “I-...”

A lump in his throat.

Lance encourages him with a small smile. “Hm?”

It’s enough. Weirdly enough. “I’ve wanted to be with you for a really long time. Like...longer than I should’ve.”

Lance’s smile grows into something heartfelt but curious. Even more encouraging. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” God, _way_ too long, if Keith’s gonna be honest here. And he may not be able to say what Lance wants to hear, but he _can_ say this at least. “Like, even when I was still with him, I wanted to be with you.”

Whoops. Well...there it is.

It’s almost comical how the revelation has pushed Lance to try to reign in the massive bloom of his smile. To stay humble. “Well uh… That’s an ego boost...”

He’s not doing a great job.

It is, however, doing a great job at lifting Keith’s spirits. “Lance…”

“Yeah?”

“I…” He wants to say it. Wants to feel it. “I love a lot of the shit that you do.” Wants so desperately for things to be even between them. “And I love like, almost every single thing about you.” Fuck, does he want it. “I… I-”

“Hang on.”

The words Keith are pushing out halt on his tongue, gaze flicking back up to where Lance is looking off, clearly thoughtful about something before returning back to him.

And he says it kindly - very kindly - but with the most honest desperation Keith’s ever heard. “Don’t-...don’t say it unless you mean it, okay?” Then a slight backpedal. “Is that alright? I know it’s kinda selfish, but-”

“Yeah.” Keith stops him right there. Doesn’t find any pleasure from watching him flounder, especially about something as intimate as this. “No, I-...I get it.”

The agreement has something loosening in Lance’s posture, a slight nod seeming to right him again and allowing him to press forward, returning to his usual state of tease. “I mean, do tell me all the things you love about me though.”

Keith grins softly, eyes rolling. “Your ego is enormous.”

“Is that one of the things?”

“No.”

“Mm.”

The weight of Lance rolling over on top of him leaves Keith with nowhere to sulk anymore. Even if he wanted to.

“I really fucking like you,” Keith sighs instead, now straddling that line between being honest and being sappy as hell. “You make me stupidly happy.”

Lance smiles down at him, skin even prettier in the afternoon sun.

And damn him if it doesn’t inspire Keith to run at the mouth a little bit. “Being with you is like-... It feels so good. And like...positive...you know?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re like a constant pop of Xanax or some shit.”

“Wow.”

“I’m serious. You’re so funny. And you’re-...” Keith lets his head fall back against the pillow, eyes rolling. _“Fuck,_ you’re pretty.”

Lance’s snicker is expected, but Keith doesn’t care. He’s been thinking this for so long and he just needs to get all this shit out while they’re doing this.

“Anything else, or are you good?”

Keith peeks back up at where Lance is still smiling at him. “See, you’re joking, but I could go on for probably another ten minutes.”

“Just ten?”

“I mean, I could make a list.”

“Really.”

“You got me all sappy and shit and now you’re gonna have t-”

Lance’s lips shut him right up, Keith melting a little as his eyes flutter closed absentmindedly.

It warms him. From the chest out. Makes all the tension there break up and float off into different directions toward the atmosphere.

“To answer your question...kinda...” Lance murmurs against him between kisses, “I’ve been waiting way too long to be with you. Just so you know.” His voice drops with what he says next, and it only solidifies what Keith’s wanted to hear. “It’s almost kinda funny you think this might be rushed, because it couldn’t have happened sooner, in my opinion.”

Somewhere, on a different plane of existence, someone’s phone pings from a Snap. But Lance’s thumbs have brushed over the curve of Keith’s cheekbones. Their legs have tangled comfortably beneath the blanket. And Keith has floated right up into the atmosphere with everything else.

 

* * *

 

Well.

Keith feels good after that.

Really fucking good.

One less thing to lurk around in his brain, then.

 

* * *

 

A week comes and goes. Afterschool with Sydney comes and goes. Keith blows Lance on a Lady A’s break and Lance sends him the video three minutes before he falls asleep.

It’s good.

It’s a good video.

That’s all he’s gonna say.

 

* * *

 

On Tuesday night, they go to the bar with people from the club again. It’s considerably more fun because Keith is considerably less drunk, Gizmo is considerably farther away from him, and everyone is considerably less hyped up about him coming out with them because it’s not his first time anymore.

Oh, and uh...also? He and Lance are actually dating this time. Like legitimately. Not just in the heads of all the dancers.

Shiro and Allura, though. Does anyone know _they’re_ dating? Or is that just Keith and Lance? Judging by the wide berth everyone’s giving their table, one might assume everyone knows. But that would also be assuming one didn’t pick up on the very confident arm slung around Keith’s shoulders. Because that certainly might be scaring people off as well.

It’s unarguably protective - the arm around him - but Keith’s not complaining in the slightest. Especially with the way Shiro already knows the two of them are at least sleeping together.

Which.

Wait.

Are he and Allura sleeping together too?

“Your face is doin’ some stuff.”

Keith responds to Lance’s observation with a brisk glance over. “Huh?”

“Tryin’ to figure out if you have telekinesis? Because you should definitely start with something small and inanimate instead of a person.”

Keith rolls his eyes, but can’t help the chuckle. “Something small, huh? Should I start with you?”

Lance’s eyes narrow. His participation in their banter is always thorough. “Alright, that was either a brain joke, a muscles joke, or a dick joke, and I’m tryna figure out which one.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Brain joke it is, then.”

Keith laughs, leaning in to speak in his ear. “Well it definitely wasn’t a dick joke.”

“Ahh,” Lance is grinning when Keith leans back, his eyebrow raise as dirty as his smirk. “Saucy.”

“Hey Blue!” The voice that interrupts them belongs to a dancer a few tables away, both of their attention drawn over by him. “Blue, get over here!”

Lance pulls a face, voice climbing above the music but not physically leaning any further away from Keith. “What, Brooklyn? I’m in the middle of some very important business here.”

“Just c’mere for a sec.”

The dancer clearly doesn’t catch the hint, leaving Lance to suppress a heavy sigh through his nose and then direct his gaze back at Keith. “Well then. Can I get you another one while I’m up?”

He motions toward Keith’s nearly empty glass, the melting ice mellowing the coincidentally blue drink to a pale turquoise. But Keith waves it off. “I got it. Your presence is needed, my lord.”

Lance’s smile is goofy, and his decision to squeeze Keith’s shoulder instead of leave on a kiss is certainly different, but it’s not a big deal. And Shiro and Allura are technically sitting right there - although they seem much more interested in whatever they’re debating than whatever Lance is doing.

Anyway.

The trip over to the bar is a familiar one, the two glasses clinking against the countertop as Keith places them down and waits patiently for the bartender’s notice. Because that’s what a nice goddamn bar patron should do. None of that snappy shit or anything like that. Fuck, that gets Keith so heated when he’s on the other end of it.

“Shot?”

Keith’s mini internal tirade is postponed for now, his attention needed elsewhere as the presence joins him to his left.

Ah.

Gizmo.

“I’m good. Thanks though,” Keith answers quite cordially, deciding that if he can afford to not be a dick to the bartender, he can also afford to not be a dick to Gizmo. “Just getting a refill.”

“Ah, no problem.”

It’s an unexpectedly civil answer. No insistence. No persuasion. It’s just...very chill.

“You uh...you alright…?” Keith has to ask it - knows it’s taking this whole ‘not being a dick’ thing a little too far to someone who put him in a compromising position the last time they spoke, but he can recognize an internal struggle when he sees it.

“Yeah.” It seems he’s right after all. “It’s just, my girlfriend broke up with me last night.”

Ah. Well, that certainly sucks.

“That’s rough,” Keith offers, not exactly sure where to go from here, and choosing to use his excess energy to push the empty glasses a bit further onto the countertop. “You guys together long?”

Gizmo’s expression is oddly void for someone who’s just been dumped. Especially from a relationship that lasted for: “Mm. ‘Bout a year.”

Keith blinks. Ah. A year. So definitely going strong when he was all over Keith his first time here. That’s...interesting. “Huh...sorry to hear.”

“It’s alright. Just trying to take my mind off her, you know?”

Aaaaand there it is. He _thinks,_ at least. Keith fakes a smile. “Gotchya, well…” It’s about the same time he unexpectedly makes eye contact with Lance across the room, the latter nodding to whatever Brooklyn is saying, but very obviously more interested in the scene unraveling at the bar.

Or more so, just who’s _involved_ in the scene at the bar.

Keith’s pulse picks up against his wrists, the urgent need to prove his innocence ingrained in his way of life after one too many mishaps in his past. It pushes him to smile. To wave a little at Lance and show that he’s not up to anything and that whatever’s going on in Lance’s head isn’t worth the-

...the...

Wait.

That isn’t Lance. That isn’t him at all. Just because Keith’s had to do it in the past, doesn’t mean…

“Another round?”

Keith twists a bit too nervously at the bartender’s voice. He can tell by the sudden look of surprise on their face. But.

“Yeah,” he says. “Please.” And then, as an afterthought. “And three shots.”

“Of?”

“Whatever.”

It all happens kind of lightning fast, everyone seeming a little lost at what’s going on. But then quickly, as if to pick everything back up, Lance is joining in, an arm around Keith’s waist and ready to fire off what is most likely a joke when Keith holds up one of the shots to him.

It stops Lance in his tracks. “Nice, babe. Um, not that I’m one to turn down free shots, but-”

“Gizmo’s girlfriend broke up with him,” Keith explains point blank. And it’s either the total seriousness in his voice, or the apparent ability to relate that’s got Lance’s smile falling, suddenly very serious as he looks over to Gizmo.

“Oh. Damn, that sucks.” He’s sincere with it. “I’m sorry, dude.”

His reaction surprises the both of them. But it opens up the opportunity for them all to raise the shot together, Lance speaking some sort of salutation in Spanish, and then down them in one gulp.

Ah.

That’s tequila.

The bartender must really want Keith to chill out.

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

They’re both way more drunk than they intended to get when they get back to Lance’s place. The spontaneous shots kind of got the ball rolling in the wrong direction, to be honest. Keith doesn't have a very good track record with that, huh?

He collapses onto the couch with a grunt, smiling stupidly when Lance follows after in order to smother on top of him with grabby hands. It’s got Keith giggling at a frequency he’s never hit before, the room spinning just enough that he has to close his eyes as Lance makes his way down, fingers tickling and mouth nipping over his sternum, down and past his belly button, sparks igniting as he creeps closer to his lap.

“Lance,” Keith laughs, face red. “Lance!”

“-‘scuse me, pardon me - ‘scuse me, pardon me,” comes Hunk’s chant as he power-walks quickly past the couch, eyes forward. “Don’t mind don’t mind don’t mind.”

Lance doesn’t mind a bit. His onslaught doesn’t, at least, mouth reaching past Keith’s belt line and inspiring Keith’s hands to drop down to rest warningly on the back of his head.

Hunk’s power-walk is comical now as he moves past again. “Sorry sorry sorry sorry-”

Lance grins into Keith’s lap. “Wait Hunk come back!”

“We love you Hunk, don’t leave,” Keith adds on, grin just as wide.

“I’m pretending like you didn’t say that!”

Hunks calls it from the hallway, voice traveling, and the door is barely closed when Lance has got Keith’s zipper down and his dick in his mouth.

Keith’s back arches, grin still going strong as Lance goes to town. “He loves us.”

Lance’s response is reasonably garbled, “Uh huh,” his voice sending shivers up Keith’s spine. “Oh, by the way,” he pops off for this one, blinking slowly up at where Keith’s watching him and keeping the stroke up with his hand. “Brooklyn invited us to a house party.”

Keith tilts his head a little, fingers carding through Lance’s hair as he swallows him back down. “Yeah? That what he pulled y-oh…” (steadying breath) “...pulled you away for tonight?”

“Mmhmmmm…” It’s purposely drawn out. Purposely teasing.

Keith’s hips buck forward before he can stop himself. “Fuck. Where uh-...where is it...?”

Lance slurps his way up to the head, giving a lick before answering. “Like half hour away. He knows a girl or somethin’.”

Huh. ‘Or something’. That sounds reasonable enough.

Keith nods, convinced as much as he needs to be given the details-to-tequila ratio dancing around in his head. “Alright…sounds fu- _ahh_...fuck, Lance...”

And that’s that.

That’s it.

It only takes Lance one more minute to get him to come and Keith’s not even embarrassed by it.

 

* * *

 

Keith is...very hungover in the morning. It makes for an interesting session with Sydney, who is understandably _not_ hungover and, on the contrary, absolutely _raring_ to go.

He pops three Advil and powers down two bottles of water and hopes for the best, deciding that this needs to be one of those mind-over-matter things that Shiro’s been trying to instill in him since before he can remember.

The first hour is absolute torture, his patience just a tiny far-off blip on the map of his abilities. But then the Advil kicks in. And his patience kicks in. And the fact that he has to help clean up Sydney’s milk because she has trouble with fine motor control and opening those stupid fucking milk containers is hard even for an adult - yeah, that goes a lot more smoothly than it could, considering half of it is soaked into his hoodie.

“Your mom’s coming to pick you up early today,” he tells her at the very beginning, then about halfway through, and then now, pointing at the clock. “When the big hand’s on the nine, okay?”

“Mhm.”

“You know what time that’d be?”

Sydney addresses the clock with disinterest until she must realize that Keith’s not going to let it go - a true believer in practicing skills as frequently as possible and woo boy, is telling time a skill a lot of these kids need to work on.

“Five…” she squints, “...forty five?”

“Not five,” Keith helps, squatting down to reach just a little below her level and then pointing at the clock face. “It’s not _quite_ at the five yet, right? So if it’s not fiiive…”

“Four.”

“Nice. So your mom’s coming at?”

Sydney stares at the clock. Stares at Keith. Does a final check of the numbers and then down at him. “Four - forty five?”

Keith smiles, “Yeah.” Offers a down-low high-five that she takes without missing a beat. “Nice job, Syd.”

She’s pleased with herself. Really. And Keith’s gotta admit, she is getting better. She still sometimes messes up reading the hour hand first, but at least they’ve outgrown standing and counting up by fives to figure out the minute hand.

Progress is progress.

Her mom actually ends up arriving closer to 4:30, which interrupts a particularly sweaty battle between the dolphin and turtle stuffed animals, but Keith’s happy to see her regardless.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

Sydney nods, smashing the dolphin into his face before throwing it back down onto the ground and running toward where her mother is waiting.

“Thanks, Keith,” she calls from the door, her usual suit jacket ditched for more comfortable attire today.

Keith smiles, “No problem,” then gives them a wave, “Bye Sydney,” the turtle dropping to join the dolphin forgotten on the floor. “Bye Ms. McClain.”

 

* * *

_Weird Shit You Do That I Love (You Thought I Was Joking But Jokes On You Blue)_

 

  1. __anime__
  2. _you can’t hear an unexpected isolated noise without feeling the need to immediately mimic it out loud. ex: phone notifications, birds, doorbells, etc._
  3. _you own more pairs of track pants than anyone i know. granted i don’t know a lot of athletic people. but you’ve got something serious going on._
  4. _that weird but super passionate mumbling you do to k-pop without realizing it._
  5. _k-pop_
  6. _you set alarms for a bunch of stuff that people don’t usually set alarms for. like to remind you to take your quizzes and stuff._
  7. _sometimes when you’re dead tired and we’re like two minutes from falling asleep together you’ll switch out english words for spanish words midsentence and like...i can usually get the gist of it but i don’t think you notice and that’s really cute to me for some reason._
  8. _you're abnormally good at eating while driving? i've seen you demolish six hard shell tacos without a single piece of displaced cheese?_
  9. _while we’re on the subject of eating, you cook me breakfast almost every single morning after i stay over. that’s not weird exactly, but i’m not used to it yet and i’m gonna milk it for all it’s worth until you stop doing it._
  10. _ok that’s all for now. this is just part one because i’m kind of worried you’re not gonna find this wherever i end up leaving it and i don’t wanna waste all the good ones if that’s the case. so yeah. part two coming soon._



 

Keith folds the paper up, not even proofreading himself for fear of getting embarrassed with all the sappiness.

He ends up smuggling it in and leaving it in Lance’s astrophysics notebook two days later - lays it out over the next clean page where Lance will inevitably be looking some point soon. Then he closes the notebook and puts it right back where he found it. Just like he was never there.

 

* * *

 

 

Wednesday happens.

Thursday happens.

Thursday evening brings with it another questionable Guy’s Night. It’s not that Keith doesn’t like Guy’s Night - there’s a dramatic increase in eye candy that he certainly appreciates - it’s just a different vibe all around. You have the guys who come in and their entire _everything_ screams that it’s their first time - guarded posture and detached tone and very obviously still trying to convince themselves that they aren’t at a male strip club. Then you get the polar opposite of that - the guys who think they’re God’s gift to this earth and should be treated as such. Only a few who come in are banking in that comfortable in-between - act like _actual people_ just here to have a good time.

It’s hard to find those guys. Even harder because Guy’s Night is only every other Thursday, so Keith still isn’t familiar with some of the regulars like he is with a lot of the ladies.

Shiro does a considerably better job at operating under the assumption that everything is normal. Might be because he’s consistently been better at that than Keith in every situation. Might be because he could easily kick the shit out of any of the dudes here if they decided to try something. Who’s to say.

“Ugh. Damn, it’s these guys…”

Speaking of.

Keith tunes to his brother’s subtle displeasure, trying to spot the people in question from behind the bar even as he asks it. “What guys.”

“Just walked in.” Shiro nods over to the doors, mouth turning downward at the corners just the slightest.

Keith follows the invisible line from Point A to Point B, carefully taking in the group in question. “What’s wrong with them?”

There’s about five. Look to be around Keith’s age. The snapback-to-no-snapback ratio within the group is alarming, clearly uncoordinated, and probably the first red flag. Second red flag? The awfully cocky way they’re moving toward their destination, all smirks and joking shoves that are entirely too comfortable and confident.

A quick glance at Shiro has Keith tripping up a bit, the look on his brother’s face similar to that of a dad who's grown very tired of the shenanigans carried out by local youths. There’s clearly a lot going on in the safety of his head. But Keith:

“Hey. What’s wrong with them?” he prompts it again. Then, as an afterthought: “Besides the obvious.”

It’s enough to have Shiro returning to nearly normal, using the excess energy to wipe down the counter in front of him. “They come in about every other month as a joke. I don’t think they even get anything out of it besides something to laugh at.”

Keith frowns. Resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Jesus. How’d he _know_ that’s why they’re here.

“I’m gonna text Allura - if she doesn’t know already,” Shiro declares, now on a mission toward the back, but not before stopping to add on, very seriously. “You should tell Blue.”

“Lance? Why?”

Shiro’s almost at the door to the back storage, but takes the moment to explain, the irritation clear in his tone. “They like to fuck with him in particular for some reason. Better to warn him they’re here now than have him find out mid-dance.”

And then he’s disappeared, door swishing shut behind him.

And Keith’s kinda just standing there. Frozen. This gross, sour feeling of the terrible, _terrible_ need to protect rearing its ugly head in his gut.

The _fuck they are._

He’s ducking out from behind the bar and halfway to the door to the dressing rooms before he realizes it - before he realizes that the bar is now unmanned - before he realizes that Lance is actually right here, apparently on his way to the very same place before their paths cross.

“Blue.”

“Well well, you’re a long way from home, mami.”

It’s cute and all but Keith’s on a mission - grabs Lance’s hand and pulls him quicker until they’re both safe behind the door. Even then he continues to pull, walking aimlessly through the dimly lit hallway until his good sense returns to him and he stops, staring at the long selection of doorways stretched out before them.

“I...I dunno where I’m going.”

Lance chuckles, although it’s a bit confused. “Can I ask why you’re kidnapping me? Or is it a surprise.”

“There’re guys here.”

It’s an impossibly vague statement, the music from the main floor muffled but the bass still thumping lowly in their chests.

Lance’s glance around is just a touch sarcastic. “Uh, yeah babe. It’s Guy’s Night.”

Keith shakes his head, frustrated and just now realizing that he probably shouldn’t have abandoned his post, and that Allura’s probably gonna have his ass for this if she finds out. But it’s worth it to give Lance the heads up. “No. These guys - they walked in and Shiro said something about how they come every once in awhile just to fuck around. They’re here.”

He’s not doing nearly as thorough of a job as he should be, but it seems it isn’t necessary, the very mention of them seeming to have something click in Lance’s head, the glint in his eyes disappearing for a moment before being forced back out.

It’s quick. Almost unnoticeable.

Keith sees the whole thing.

“I just wanted you to know,” he says, that need to protect so thick in his gut that it’s almost starting to hurt. “Maybe...I dunno, maybe you can push your songs back until they leave-”

“Don’t worry about it, Gloves.” Lance is waving it off just like that. “They’re just some guys from school. I don’t give a shit about them.”

Keith’s frown is absolutely unavoidable. “Lance-”

“It’s cool! Seriously! I can handle it.”

He’s saying it and he’s smiling through it but the knot in Keith’s gut refuses to accept it. Refuses to let up. Maybe he’s just paranoid, but…

Keith huffs, unsatisfied but moving forward to wrap his arms around Lance. Like maybe he can keep things alright this way. Can transfer some of these awful protective-vibes directly to him. God, what is he even _talking_ about.

“As much as I dig you lovin’ on me, should you be at the bar, or…”

Keith’s eyes open. Oh yeah.

“I should…”

Just one more second.

Maybe a couple more.

And...

A steadying inhale grounds Keith enough to give one more squeeze and then unwrap himself. Although it’s the last thing he wants to do.

He turns to what he assumes is the right way to leave, trying very hard to shake off his clinginess. Because this isn’t about him. This is about making sure Lance is-

“Hey.”

The fingers wrapping around his wrist at the last second have Keith stopping in his tracks, brows furrowing as he’s helped around to face Lance again.

He’s smiling - soft and sincere. “It’s cute that you care.”

Keith glances away. Can’t deal with the intimacy of that smile being directed at him right now with the way his emotions are dragging him in every direction. “Yeah, well…”

He’s pulled in then - Lance’s other hand coming up to rest lightly on the side of his neck as their lips meet.

Then...

“I’ll see you soon...okay?”

Keith nods.

Takes another breath.

Turns and forces himself back out into the muddle of loud music and deep voices and the smell of spilled Hennessy. Frowns at the dawning awareness that the situation flipped on its head and left Lance comforting him instead of the other way around.

How the fuck did that happen…

 

\-  -  -  -  -  -

 

Blue’s first routine with the undesirables present goes without a hitch. Keith knows because he stops literally everything he’s doing and keeps his attention on them, ready to scale the bar once again should any bullshit go down.

But it doesn’t. Thank god. In fact, about the only out of place thing that happens is Lance’s initial spot of them, that same momentary loss of the glint in his eye that distinctly makes Lance _Lance._ But that’s it. He doesn’t let it show otherwise, continuing on with his routine as normal and hopping down off the stage to give his attention to one of the older, shyer guys on the other side of the room.

Keith’s pretty impressed, actually. A little envious too. To be able to just ignore a group of cocky assholes who continue to mess with you - not only that, but act as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening - damn, that’s just honestly an ability Keith admires him for.

The last notes of his Jay Park song hammer out, and then Blue’s gone to live another day.

And Keith can resume his normal duties as a bartender.

Until.

_Until._

He sees it out of the corner of his eye first, Allura’s presence always enough to steal your attention no matter what you’re in the middle of. She’s talking to Lance near the door to the dressing rooms, posture authoritative but not unkind. Her eyes remain fixed across the floor as she speaks - undoubtedly at the group of troublemakers - but Lance is only focused on her.

He’s got his listening face on - that look of concentration he adopts when someone’s telling him something he needs to really focus on. The second she’s done speaking, his mouth is moving a mile a minute, forehead crinkling just enough that it’s becoming obvious he’s trying to talk his way out of something. Or into something. Or around something or _something._ Keith can’t tell. But with the way he’s most likely over-talking, and Allura’s distinct focus on the group of guys, there isn’t much wiggle room around the fact that it’s not good.

“My card, man.”

Keith snaps back to it, blinking quickly as he zeros back in on his forgotten task at hand - or more specifically, the guy who’s finished closing his tab and has been patiently waiting for Keith to return back to earth.

“Oh, uh-...” he thrusts the debit card back at the customer, “Sorry. Here you go.” and then lets his gaze flick back to where Lance appears to be finishing up his plea, because Allura crosses her arms, turns her direction toward him, and then says what Keith can make out as a confirming _alright._

And oh, that gross muck is back in Keith’s gut. He can’t even help it.

He doesn’t notice he’s staring until Lance nods at something Allura finishes up with, watches her walk away, and then immediately looks across the room at Keith.

Keith glances away. Busies himself with a bullshit attempt at literally anything. Whatever it takes to free himself of the bizarre embarrassment of being caught watching, for some reason.

“Hey beautiful. Can I get your number and a shot?”

The voice cropping up behind him is only a little expected, Keith’s bullshit task of messing with the buttons on the digital register apparently not doing a well enough job convincing anyone of his innocence.

He turns, Lance’s favorite tequila in one hand and a shot glass in the other.

“You already have my number,” he says, unable to shake the looming weight in order to flirt back as intended.

Lance hums, tapping the counter with his fingertips as he watches Keith pour. “Mm. How ‘bout a date then.”

“We have a date tomorrow.”

The shot is pushed across the countertop. Free of charge. Not exactly normal for Blue, but Keith decides to leave it alone after being clingy enough.

Lance pulls it closer but leaves it down, instead taking the time to lean against the bar top and smile fondly at him. “Anyone ever tell you how pretty your eyes are?”

Keith breathes out. Sets the bottle down. “What’re you trying to distract yourself from, Blue?”

It earns him a laugh, despite the fact that it was intended as a serious question. “Damn, I’m just tryna compliment my boyfriend - there something wrong with that?”

That part, at least, is heartfelt - has Keith letting up a little because alright _fine,_ he really could benefit from relaxing a little. So… A sigh. “No…” He turns to put the tequila on the shelf, deciding to fix his attitude on the way back.

The shot is still sitting there when he does.

As is Blue.

Keith leans on the counter as well - almost mirrored - eyes him up and down a bit with appreciation - then, “I like that hoodie.”

Lance grins at the change. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Sleeveless. That shit usually looks terrible, but I mean...anything looks good on you.”

It works. The praise works.

Lance tilts his head just a bit, hand sliding across the counter to slip over Keith’s and lace their fingers together. “Well thank you…”

His hand is warm. Always is. Keith doesn’t have to force the little grin that dances its way across his face this time. “I think we should bail on the rest of this shift.”

His grin is matched, although more mischievous. “Yeah? And do what?”

“Like literally anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yeah.”

“Anime.”

“Sure.”

“Wait,” he’s perking up at that. “Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“Man, you wanna leave _bad.”_

Keith shrugs. Ain’t that the damn truth. He truly must be desperate if he’s willing to go suffer through more screaming in Japanese.

The squeeze from Lance means it’s time. To go, that is. Not to bail. And with that, he takes the shot with an attractive smoothness, places the shot glass back down, and then winks at Keith as he steps away.

“Thanks, beautiful.”

Keith smiles, “Mhm...” watches him walk backwards, hands stuffing into the front pocket of his hoodie as he tacks one last thing on.

“And don’t stress, okay? I got it handled.”

It’s just as smooth - his tone - and Keith’s almost convinced until his brain flashes back to his and Allura’s talk a few minutes ago.

Got it handled.

Got _what_ handled?

“Lance.”

“Bye, babe!”

He doesn’t even get a chance to ask, Blue blending in with the rest of the bodies like he can’t do on normal nights without the fear of an immense amount of attention from the ladies.

Keith sighs. God damn it.

What does that even mean?

 

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

 

He figures it out.

He knows what it means. For Blue’s last dance. He knows what it means and he knows exactly why Lance said that. because it means one of the guys is up in the Hot Seat. In the lap dance chair. One of the guys from the group of snapback bros and Keith is about to have a fucking fit.

Because now it’s all very clear. The thing with Allura. One of them probably approached her about a dance from Blue, which made her take Lance aside and tell him not to do it. But Lance is Lance. And Blue is Blue. And he’s been doing this for who knows how long and now-...fuck, now…

The song starts. The song starts and it’s a slow one. A lap dance one. The guy in the chair is already looking down at his group of friends and Blue’s not even out yet. And the tension in Keith’s chest is about enough to make him want to throw up.

“He’s tough, I’ll give him that,” Shiro mutters next to him, arms crossed as the curtains part and Blue comes sauntering out.

Only this time, there’s a considerable weight to his steps. This time, his expression is iced over...determined...focused.

It’d almost be kind of hot if Keith wasn’t already halfway to shredding through the rag in his hand as he watches.

The first contact is brisk, Blue flattening his palm against the guy’s chest and pushing him further back into the chair. The movements are all there - all just as liquid smooth and tempting as a normal lap dance - but Keith can see the poison in Blue’s stare as he bends down to run his hands down the guy’s thighs and then spread his legs so he can turn and ease his way down between them, hips working to the beat.

He takes the time to ease his shirt up over his head, shoulders and back tensing gloriously, but arms too busy to prevent the hands that find their way to his bare hips as they sway.

Keith grits his teeth - ready to hop the bar or do _something_ but - but Blue’s on it - tosses his shirt to the side and gracefully plucks the guy’s hands from him and places them back on the chair by the wrists.

It’s fine.

He’s got this. Blue knows exactly what he’s doing. He wouldn’t have agreed to do it if he didn’t think he could handle it. There’s no need for Keith to get so possessive and protective and all that shit.

Jay Park croons...says something undoubtedly sexual in Korean...paints the way for Blue to turn in the seat, slowly stepping over the guy’s thighs until he’s straddling his lap and dipping down with a sensual roll of his hips.

He says something, way too quiet to hear over the music, but it’s got the guy responding, blinking slowly up at him. And they’re...they’re talking...like a full blown conversation, Blue hanging onto the back of the chair and leaning backwards just a bit to accentuate the roll.

Keith watches carefully. Fuck, he wishes he was close enough to read their lips. It’s clear they’re not exactly swapping lasagna recipes, especially with the way Lance’s eyes have narrowed just the slightest bit, smile fake. But he still wants to know what they’re saying, because there’s a really good chance Lance is being catty right now. And as very intense as this situation may be, Keith does always enjoy hearing the truly sassy things that can come out of that mouth.

It’s a thought, unfortunately, that’s only able to be entertained for a moment. Because no sooner than the two’s mysterious conversation ends, does one of the friends from the crowd shout out - something garbled and slurred from liquor but quite clearly inciting a sweep of boldness, the rest of the table laughing and the guy grinning at them but Lance keeps his cool. Continues as planned. Does his fucking job and pushes the guy’s hands off from his lower back again, a clear reminder that you don’t touch unless given permission. And there’s no way in high hell Blue’s given him permission.

Which begs the question why it keeps happening. Why those hands keep snaking up his back and over his hips when they’re absolutely not supposed to. It’s not a difficult answer to arrive to. The guy’s a dick. An absolute douche canoe.

Keith tries to keep his calm, habitually reminding himself that Blue’s got it. That it’s all handled. That he’s already spotted both Allura and two security guys just a short reach away off the side of the stage.

Everything is fine.

It’s all…

It’s all fine…

Except it’s not.

Because Blue’s getting mad. They can’t see it. The guy can’t see it. But Keith can. And Allura probably can. And it doesn’t help that this is now the sixth time he’s had to move this creep’s hands off of him (not that Keith’s counting). But the song has to end soon, right? To be honest, it’s all kind of blurring together, the dread in Keith’s gut making everything slide in and out of time.

Up on the stage, Blue presses in close, head turned purposely away from the crowd as he pushes through. The guy’s got a hand on him again - from his shoulder blade all the way down his spine - has him arching away from it and coming to face the guy again and this time it’s clear. This time the irritation on his face is unable to be hidden, and Keith can see it coming from a mile away - is already moving as the guy’s hand slides low and just below the waistband of Lance’s briefs, his entire body moving forward to force their faces together and Lance _loses it -_ fucking takes both hands and pushes him back, the chair legs screeching over the music and the guy flying backward and it all happens in a rush - security and Allura and the chaos from the table and Blue’s gone.

_Gone._

Keith’s after him anyway, Shiro probably knowing there’s no way he can stop him even if he wanted to. Because he can’t. And Keith’s _moving._ And he doesn’t know exactly where he’s going but he getting there quicker than he’s ever gotten anywhere before.

Except Lance isn’t in the dressing rooms. And he isn’t anywhere in the club. And Keith keeps moving, walking quickly to where he’s almost positive he’ll find him in his car, but when he reaches it, it’s empty, the lights out and engine still.

Keith swallows, braining wracking until the next hiding place presents itself.

The landscaping rocks crunch under his boots as he rounds the building. He makes it all the way to the back before he sees finally sees him - Lance - hoodie thrown over himself.

His pace back and forth is brisk - head down - lips pressed together in a thin line. It’s a look Keith’s never seen before. Is experiencing now, for the first time. And…

“You okay?”

He’s clearly interrupting something, Lance’s head snapping up at his voice and a hand immediately flying to run through his hair as he clears his throat.

“Hey!” His answer is too happy. Too forced. Smile too pained. “Yeah, yeah - it’s cool. Just getting some air, you know?”

It hurts to look at. It really, really does. “You...are you sure? Because that was-”

“Totally. Yeah, comes with the job, right?” He gestures around himself, the chuckle in his voice weak.

Keith frowns. “No." Is that seriously what he thinks? "No, it doesn’t. Just because you dance, that doesn’t mean some asshole can touch you like that.”  Is that what he’s thought this whole time or is it because he’s trying so desperately to act like everything’s fine? “Lance-”

“I’m good I’m good, okay? You don’t gotta-”

“You’re _not_ good.” Keith snaps it. Needs to get it out. Needs Lance to know that… “You’re not good. You don’t _have_ to be good _all_ the _time._ You can be pissed about shit.”

Lance’s forced smile dims at that. At his words. At his...permission...maybe… “Keith-”

“Be pissed, Lance. Be upset. That asshole fucked with you and you can’t just pretend like everything’s okay or you’re gonna explode.” He takes a shaky breath. Can feel his heart taking off into the autumn air. Hopes what he’s saying is coming across the right way because… “Just… Just _be...angry._ It’s okay.”

Lance’s eyes haven’t left him once. Haven’t strayed as he hangs onto his words. And Keith can see it unraveling. Can see all the shit Lance has thrown forward to keep this happy-go-lucky persona alive start to crumble into the ground - into the rocks - very slowly until his gaze drops - expression drops - tone drops.

“I didn’t have to do it.”

Keith waits a moment. Waits for him to keep going and then helps him along. “Didn’t have to do what?”

“The dance. I didn’t have to do it. Allura told me not to.”

The breeze picks up - chilly against their skin.

Lance turns halfway. “But I did anyway because I’m a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“Yes I am. Why else would I think I could do it?”

“Because you’re good at what you do and you take your job seriously.” Keith speaks up for this one, goosebumps rising. “How were you supposed to know he was gonna pull that shit?”

Lance shakes his head, kicking into the ground.

It may or may not be the right thing to say. All he knows is it opens up a bunch of silent space, only interrupted by the beat of the music starting back up again inside.

“They were in one of my gen-eds. Used to talk a bunch of shit.” Lance’s voice is quiet when it crops back up again, but it’s filled to the brim with resentment. “Apparently being a stripper is fucking hilarious because they just keep comin’ back.”

Keith thinks that deserves a gentle reminder. “You know their asses are banned after Allura gets done with them.”

“Yeah, great.” He’s the next one to snap it. Must surprise himself because he shakes his head again and then looks back to where Keith’s been standing. “Sorry, babe. It’s not you.”

“No, it’s okay,” Keith answers truthfully. “Keep going.”

“I-” he sighs, “I don’t have anything else to say.”

“You sure?”

Lance raises his arms out, gesturing around plainly and then letting them collapse back to his sides with a slap.

Keith lets it go, because that one _is_ directed at him a little. But he’d probably be doing even worse if things were switched and he’s just-...

“C’mere,” he hums, arms reaching out and coming to rest around Lance as he steps into the embrace. Lance is running warm. Still breathing a little heavily. Keith tightens his hold and murmurs into his neck, “I’m really proud of you.”

It takes too long to register. Lance’s tone far too confused. “What? ...for what?”

“For standing up for yourself in there,” he answers, fingers coming to scratch calmingly at the short hair at the back of Lance’s head. “And for not pretending like everything’s sunshine and daisies and shit for once.”

That last part is what stalls it all up the most, Lance uncharacteristically silent as his brain must process what’s going on. Because this is...kind of a breakthrough of sorts, if Keith’s gonna be honest.

And it may be pretty chilly back here, but Keith’s getting warmer by the second, leaving a kiss on Lance’s cheek as they stand, wrapped together, and just exist, separated from everything else.

He’s proud.

And he’s in the moment.

And he’s-...he’s in-...

...

 

* * *

 

On Friday, Keith finds it almost impossible to leave Lance alone. During the day, he wants to send him all the dumb shit he finds on Tumblr. At work, he makes extra stops out to the tables just for the off chance that he’s wandering around out there as well and they’ll run into each other. After work, he suggests hanging out and even goes so far as sealing the deal and watching anime with him again. Because it means they’re together, no matter how late it is (or rather, how early in the morning). And it also means he can slide up to Lance on the couch and make eyes at him for half an hour before Lance figures out he’s trying to get them to bed.

Lance fucks him nice and slow, hands on Keith’s waist and hips as graceful as always. Keith eats it up...breathes it in...doesn’t even care that he still has his socks on. Because this is where he wants to be. With who he wants to be with. And his chest feels so light and warm that he can’t fight down the smile bubbling to his face as Lance nuzzles into his neck and grazes his teeth over the sensitive skin.

 

* * *

 

Saturday’s pretty much the same.

 

* * *

 

Sunday too.

 

* * *

 

Keith’s convinced he’s gonna have it out of his system by Monday.

He doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

Tuesday either.

 

* * *

 

On Wednesday, Keith’s just as desperate for Lance’s affection, but real life stuff is happening so he has to split his attention for the time being.

The real life stuff in particular is Sydney’s school musical. It’s kind of a big fucking deal, because this is the first thing of hers that he’s been invited to in the four years he’s known her.

He puts on the button-down that he’s supposed to be wearing to interviews and some nice black jeans and when Shiro deems him passable enough as an adult, he’s off to the elementary school.

It’s not too far away, but parking is an absolute motherfucker. He had no idea Beyonce herself was gonna be at this thing. (Note: sarcasm - Beyonce’s not here, it’s just really crowded. Lance would think that’s funny if he were here and not out at that thing with Hunk or whatever he said.)

If finding a parking spot is an Olympic challenge, finding Sydney and/or her mom is an impossibility. This must be some sort of five star production of The Little Mermaid or something because there’s barely room to even move through the lobby.

He does an awful lot of awkward milling around before he’s saved by the tug on his arm and delighted “Mr. T!”

It could only be Sydney, the years of mispronunciation sounding right only in the sweet little voice that maybe haunts Keith’s nightmares sometimes.

“Oh, Syd. I couldn’t find you guys.” He’s not afraid to admit it. And she’s still at that age where she doesn’t realize just how much of a social-anxiety-ridden fool he is yet. So there’s no harm. “Wow, look at you.”

Sydney giggles, smoothing down the front of her bright green seaweed costume. Which is bizarre, because she’s been telling Keith she’s one of Ariel’s sisters for like, weeks now. But… “I’m grass!”

“I uh…” his grin is a little put-on. “I think you’re seaweed, right?”

“I’m _grass!”_

“Alrighty.”

Satisfied with her declaration, she takes Keith’s arm again and begins tugging him in the right direction. And although he desperately needs the directional help, he needs the bloodflow to return to his fingers just as much. “Here, I’ll follow you - okay?”

She allows him to wiggle free, not even turning before bounding off through the crowd. It’s quick enough that he has to pick up his pace for fear of losing her and ending up right back in the mess he started in. But then, gloriously, there’s a break in the mass of people. Closer to the wall with several cases displaying messy straw scarecrow sculptures. Closer to the familiar face of Sydney’s mother, her smile just as relieving to Keith’s nerves as she laughs at something the guy next to her-...

...next to-…

...

What the-...

“Mr. T!” Sydney announces, blissfully ignorant as the guy crouches down to her for a half hug, smile slowly forming into an open mouth gape of confusion as Keith emerges from the crowd because…

It’s…

“What...the fuck?”

Ms. McClain clicks her tongue, slapping him on the shoulder with the back of her hand and a: “Lance, Jesus Christ.”

It’s obviously directed at the fact that he’s swearing so openly in front of Sydney, but Keith has to admit he’s thinking the exact same thing. Has to admit that _yes._ What the fuck _indeed._

“How do you…” He can’t even form the thoughts, let alone the right words. Because _what._ What the actual fuck?

 _“You’re_ Mr. T?” Lance is honestly shocked, brows knit like he’s trying very hard to solve a puzzle with more than half of the pieces missing.

And again - wow, holy shit, does Keith get it.

Ms. McClain glances between the two of them, obviously, if not _more,_ confused. “What’s going on? Why’re you acting so weird?”

Lance’s complete lack of an answer earns him another smack to the shoulder, this one accompanied by a slew of Spanish that goes right over Keith’s head. _That,_ Lance answers. Then they’re both just staring at Keith. And Keith...well…

“Wait so…” how to ask… “Sydney’s your…”

“Niece,” he answers, although it sounds more like a question. Then, sticking with the one word answers, he points toward Ms. McClain. “Sister.”

It explains it. Really succinctly. So why’s Keith standing here like he still has no idea what’s going on.

“I can’t believe Sydney’s Keith is _your_ Keith.” Ms. McClain’s now having a reasonably easier time coming to grips with the situation. Even if her brother seems to be doing a lot of heavy processing as he continues to stare at Keith.

Actually, they both haven’t stopped staring at each other since the initial shock.

They probably look dumb as hell right now.

“Let’s go, little miss seaweed,” a woman with glasses hanging from her necklace beckons, getting Sydney’s attention. “Time to gather up!”

The group of assorted Little Mermaid demons huddled near the stage door make more sense now, and just before Sydney goes to join them, Lance breaks away from the confusion to crouch down by her, looking up much like Keith does when he wants to hold her attention.

“Alrighty Syd, it’s showtime,” he smiles enouragingly. “Remember what we practiced?”

Sydney answers him with a little shimmy, showing off the glitter in her costume that Keith just now notices.

Lance gives his approval, poking her in the tummy to earn a giggle and then saying, oh so sweetly, “Go get ‘em, baby girl.”

He straightens as Sydney runs off to join the herd of children waiting, one of the miscellaneous fish immediately launching into some sort of conversation with her when she reaches them.

It doesn’t even dawn on Keith that he didn’t wish her luck until Lance is talking again, tone amused. “Okay so like, this’s a joke right? I mean, Jesus Christ. I dunno how you found him, but you definitely got me.”

Ms. McClain regards him with an unamused blink. “It’s not a joke.”

“It’s gotta be.”

“It’s not.”

It must take Keith saying it for things to get real, because Lance is starting and stopping a counter-argument every second, nothing ever actually making its way out of his mouth.

It takes every moment until they’re actually sitting down watching the musical for Keith to start making connections.

Sydney goes to California during the summer? Lance and the rest of his family are from San Francisco.

Lance has a sister here in Chicago who drops off food for him and Hunk? Ms. McClain.

Hyperactivity? _All_ up in that family tree, apparently.

There’s a lot that starting to come together in the dimmed lighting, high pitched voices accompanied by piano as the kids stumble their way through a made-for-production musical number.

Keith chances a glance over at where Lance is bouncing his leg, then up to where his entire focus is centered on Sydney on stage, lips moving ever so slightly to the song and eyebrows raising in time with their flourishes of tiny bravado.

It’s...really sweet. Really cute. It may or may not light up this ridiculous pool of warmth in Keith’s chest that _may or may not_ make his eyes a little glossy. And it stays there the entire musical, the shock wearing off enough that Keith can’t help but let their fingers lace together, hidden in the dark space between them as Sydney does her thing up on stage, her costume glittering magnificently under the lights.

When it’s all over - when it’s absolutely certain that Ariel has her voice back and she and the prince are off to be married and all that shit, Sydney meets them back in the lobby where it all started off, the grin on her face bright enough to light the entire room.

Keith squats for a double low-five. “You killed it, Syd.”

“Of course she did! It’s in the McClain blood!” Lance boasts, waiting for his turn and then carrying out a rather complex handshake that involves finger guns, the running man in both directions, and finishes off with a dab.

Keith watches with an insane amount of joy, his face officially starting to hurt from how much he’s been smiling tonight.

“Ice cream?” Ms. McClain asks Sydney, her keys jingling in her hand as she fishes them from her purse.

It has Sydney glancing over at Lance, “Ice cream?” who nods and then follows the pattern to glance over at Keith.

“Ice cream?”

Keith laughs, the offer sounding pretty favorable, but he’s crashed this whole family outing long enough. Plus, he’s quickly nearing the end of his social quota for the day - just enough to let them all down easily with regretful, “Ah, thanks but I can’t. Syd, you have to eat my ice cream for me, okay?”

That, as expected, agrees very well with Sydney.

“Can you thank Mr. Keith for coming?”

Her mother’s prompting is just as successful, her costume shimmering as she latches onto his arm for the last time tonight with a giggle. “Thanks, Mr. T!”

“Of course,” he grins, “Thanks for inviting me.” Then, toward Ms. McClain, “Thanks.”

“Thank _you,”_ she insists.

Lance is the last person to say goodbye to, the sudden pressure of figuring out how to do so within seconds leaving him at a bit of a loss. “Uh-”

“I’ll text you,” Lance is on it, thankfully, eyes sparkling not unlike the green seaweed now running back to attach to his leg.

Keith nods. “Yeah. Okay uh,” well then, “Night everyone.”

He gives a little wave and then excuses himself, knowing full well that he left on a touch of an awkward note, but he doesn’t even care. Because when he settles back into his car, finally alone and everything rushing back to his chest like he’s just rallied about five hits, he can’t even help the stupid smile, dragging a hand through his hair and then down his face as he chuckles with disbelief.

Because he’s-...

Lance-...

“Holy shit…”

 

* * *

 

 

Thursday continues the week’s trend of craving the affections of a certain amusing dancer, made even more needy by all the thinking Keith’s been doing lately. All the thinking and coming to conclusions and emotion-processing.

Lucky for Keith, Lady A’s needs pipe maintenance or some shit tonight, which means they’ve got the night off and plenty of time for a Community Bonfire.  

Community Bonfire, Keith quickly discovers, means everyone gathers in the courtyard at Lance and Hunk’s apartment building with lots of booze and lots of flannel. There _is_ a fire - a pretty big one at that. Hunk makes it while Lance gives unhelpful observations and pours him some apple whiskey that they and Shay are sharing.

It’s the good stuff. Not _The Good Stuff,_ but still good stuff. Crown Royal, if specifics are needed. Apple. And Keith may be a little chilly after refusing one of Lance’s jackets upstairs, but it’s all good because he’s at peace and he fucking _loves_ bonfires and loves-

“Lance!” Hunk calls out as he’s offered yet another gem of unhelpful wisdom. “We’re not using dryer lint. The fire’s already lit, man. No thanks to _you.”_

It’s an accusation that doesn’t cut very deeply, Shay convincing him to just have some more whiskey instead.

Lance has already moved on, striking up conversation with whoever that is next to him as he hangs an arm around Keith’s shoulders.

It’s a great vibe.

Perfect autumn.

Keith soaks it in. Lets himself be rejuvenated by it. Lets the rest of his worries float off with the rest of the crackling embers up into the night sky. Lets his belly grow warm from the whiskey and Lance’s attention.

The heat from the fire lulls him into almost complete comfort. If only it wrapped all the way around to the cool air still noticeable at his back.

As if to answer his wishes, warmth immediately drapes over him, along with the stronger smell of Lance’s cologne.

“It’s okay,” he hums in appreciation, moving to shrug the jacket off and give it back to Lance. But he’s not quick enough.

And Lance is securing it closer around him with thoughtful hands, “Ah ah ah…”

“It’s your-”

“Listen, mami - you gonna let me spoil you on this fine autumn evening or not?”

Another act of sweetness. One that makes Keith want to curl up in a ball and die. In a good way. Of course.

“If you’re spoiling me, can we sit down?”

Lance’s eyebrows raise quickly as he takes in a heavy breath, eyes wandering. “Ooo wow. You know what- I dunno about that one. That’s kinda asking a lot, don’t you think?”

Keith giggles. _Giggles._ It’s the whiskey probably.

But his second wish is granted, Lance pulling one of the folding cloth camping chairs toward them and Keith coming down to settle in his lap, his legs draped over the side and an arm around the back of Lance’s neck.

And that’s where they stay. For most of the night, actually. And it’s perfect because it’s comfortable and Lance is warm and rubbing absentmindedly at Keith’s shin and everything just feels really-...feels really good. Really nice.

They’ve both reached a pleasant buzz. One that doesn’t fuck with their thinking or their reasoning or anything. Just lets them loosen. Lets them appreciate.

Keith finishes off his cup, watching the reflection of the flames dance against the crystal clear plastic. Watches how they cast everything with a comforting orange glow. His hands. The buttons on the jacket. Lance’s face.

“Hey.”

He’s caught staring again.

This time Keith doesn’t care. “Can we talk somewhere?”

Lance waits a moment, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Yeah sure. How ‘bout the Caribbean Islands? There’s a flight leaving in ten-”

“Babe.”

“-minutes. Yes?”

Keith rolls his eyes fondly. “Can we talk somewhere in this general area?”

“Oh. Yeah, good idea.” He slips his phone back into his pocket, committing to the bit until the end. “Saves on packing time. I also don’t have any of those tiny ziplock bags.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know, right? How’m I supposed to get shampoo into a bag that small-”

“Lance.” He’s chuckling again. Even more sure now. “I wanna talk to you about something.”

“Something naughty?”

“No.”

“Mm.” His gaze drifts back off to the fire. Feigning disinterest. Just long enough for Keith to start his long exhale before he intercepts it with an honest grin and makes to get up. “Yeah, let’s go to the roof.”

It much quieter up here.

Darker, too.

Colder, everything drenched in moonlight instead of the fire’s glow. But Lance looks just as pretty.

“I’ve been thinking,” Keith starts, butterflies fluttering in circles around his rib cage. “About a lot of stuff, actually.”

He hesitates just a bit too long. Because it’s enough time for Lance to pick it up with careful words.

“Okay, before you say anything...I just want you to know that that’s exactly how people start off telling me we’re breaking up.”

Keith frowns, gaze landing on him. “I’m-...what?”

“Like verbatim. _‘I’ve been thinking lately.’ ‘Oh, it’s just not working.’ ‘It’s not you it’s me.’”_ Lance lists them all off, his voice raising a register to rattle off what he’s apparently heard more than a few times.

Keith shakes his head. Tries to right it. “That’s-... That’s not at all what I’m saying.”

“Oh- _‘I don’t have time for this kind of relationship right now.’_ That’s a good one-”

“Lance-”

“Really nice thing to make you feel in the way.”

“Lance. Stop talking.”

“Definitely a backhanded compliment that shouldn’t hurt but does-”

“Lance.” Keith faces him. Fully. Completely. Digs his sneakers in and speaks over him because he needs to tell him- “I love you. I’m in love with you.”

It dances off his tongue with half a dozen butterflies, although his chest is still fluttering all the same. And Lance’s face - his fucking face.

“W-... What…?”

It’s a different kind of shock. A softer sense of it. Vulnerable. Like maybe he’s not hearing right.

But he is. He definitely is.

Keith steps forward, flying high and grounding himself against him as he says it again. Honestly. Quietly. Just as vulnerable. “I love you.”

Lance swallows thickly, coming to grips. “You’re...not just saying-”

“I’m not just saying it.” Keith can’t fight down the giddy smile rising now. “I’m in love with you Lance.”

It’s impossible. Like how gloriously full his chest feels. How perfect the melody of the crickets singing nearby is. How absolutely otherworldly Lance looks in this light - lips parted and slowly quirking up as Keith’s declaration sets in.

Fuck, he loves this boy.

So fucking much.

Keith rests his chilly palms on Lance’s cheeks, pulling him down so he can slot their lips together. The arms wrapping around his middle are eager...dedicated...make the grin still on Keith’s mouth deepen as it presses to Lance’s own. Even through-...

Keith leans back, brows furrowing just a bit when he asks it. “Holy shit...are you crying…?”

But Lance is snatching him back up before he can get a good look, chuckle breathy as it flutters through his answer. “No way!”

Keith allows the redirection. For now. Lets his eyes close peacefully as he relaxes the side of his face against Lance’s neck.

The crickets continue to serenade them as a swell of laughter rises from the bonfire below. And Keith can’t help but get lost in the feeling of everything coming together… Finally righting itself…

“I love you,” Lance murmurs, seemingly quieter than intended.

But it hits Keith all the same, his words sinking in because this is-...this is the first time Lance has actually said it since-...

He loves him.

Keith grins. Swallows the lump rising in his throat. “I love you too.” And okay. He gets the whole teary-eyed thing now.

Speaking of which. “Okay, _now_ I’m crying.”

It’s enough to set them both into a fit of laughter, clinging onto each other and Keith rocking them a little off-kilter to straighten them back out. The teeny sniffle that Lance does right by his ear is adorable.

And Keith’s on top of the fucking world.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> 8/14/18  
> this story will be finished! still working on it! please don't come into my inbox asking if it's going to be finished! thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://whatthebodygraspsnot.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [ fic playlist ](http://whatthebodygraspsnot.tumblr.com/crowdpleaserplaylist)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Head Spinner](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12679224) by [HedonistInk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HedonistInk/pseuds/HedonistInk)




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